The light in our eyes won’t let us sleep.
It lures us apart from each other.
We are cornered in its glow,
more than we all even know,
and beetles crawl along in the trees.
You say the wrong thing
and you punish yourself.
You hold your hand over the candle.
You bite into your lip until you start
to taste metal, but the metal
tastes like everything else.
There is a plan at work among
the board room deciders, we get glimpses of
in movies and commercials.
They pour the powder in their tea,
and then their red eyes start to see
the spider in the web and all its promise.
Teleporting Typewriter 