We bubble out from the beginning.
We should be drowning, but we breathe
through tubes. Bloody, as latex gloved hands
stretch into the mass. Blinking lights and
shimmering faces sparkle all around us.
Everything so bright. A canvas draped in ivy.
Enveloped by nature, we frolic about,
growing like pungent daffodils. Then text books,
loose leaf, pink erasers, yellow pencils are forcibly
shoved in front of our faces, and towering
figures loom above, droning on and on and on.
Yet still we stare, glossy eyed, out every windowpane at the landscape.
Gradually wires and robots creep in through the ceiling,
finally bursting through the walls; we ignore them.
They become natural, intertwined with our
vocal chords and flexing fingers. Whirring
gears mix with pixelated documents, the crutches
to our struggling brains. We envision beauty from a swivel chair.
It's you, it's me, it's her, it's him, it's them.
Mingled together in a mob like mentality,
we stumble wit