The dungeon,
where fools live and die,
since the lacking and ever changing interface ways keep going,
even though,
the bodies;
are nothing but earth freckles that clutter and choke the breathing,
a game some would say it is,
but from the little content of it,
that would crash in a ball of flames,
willing enough put by jail ringers in seeing nothing at the end of their noses,
and force fire on the misunderstood and weak.

O’ in forth of the phase that slices through hardest of metals of silver and copper,
forthcoming distance in the future for the all time upgrade,
left in vast bleak and spiteful space,
as a cloud rolls in to cover the fleeting starts in a thick and deadly virus . . .
the file stack away to state the past,
lack the important notice,
leaving the world as thus . . .
empty and hopeless.

Leak the fakes of intelligent beings,
forming into native lives they thought were never theirs from the start,
and start over,
in this spider web that drips salty rain from it,
turning into solid bricks and in time,
anew in swell an empire bigger, better, and wiser . . .

one can dream anyway.

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