On and on the deadstream rolls.
No moderation. No controls.
The signal coaxes and cajoles.
Ten thousands more each day.
The broadcast leaps from mind to mind
Performing as it was designed.
The algorithm seeks and finds.
Nowhere to hide away.
The groans burst out from every screen,
A screaming horror unforeseen.
Creation undead and obscene.
All nature in disarray.
So soon it will take all of us.
Collect. Connect. Without a fuss.
Nothing but hollow, rotting husks
The Great Deadstream Array.
This one’s a little more weird than my usual happy poetry about werewolves and giant atomic monsters and ogres, but what can I do? My friend Tim made an off-hand comment about “the deadstream” and it stuck with me for a couple days. Sometimes the ideas come out odd and poetic. All I can do when that happens is write and make sure the rhyme and syllable count work out. Which they do. So there!
(Photo Credit: Free-Photos on Pixabay)