Curious.
About the box that sits before me.
The more I stare at it
the more it drains my identity.
It's what's unspoken
Words that rattle aren't much
Those unspoken
An underlying effect
Those that should be touched
Subjects, disregarded
Flipped to sound
Sound nonchalant
A backside hum
What this little box makes when it turns off
A resounding tide
That hits contemplation.
Drained, by rattled off imitations.
Processed information
An obscure mess
To a viewer's distress
Written backwards, a code
Words made fancy
Dressed up with sugar coats
And here we are
With an identity that's stolen
