It's not about money.
That'll be twelve grand you owe me then.
It's not about the money.

My poor Siri.

Apart from her own name and mine
She only knows six words.

****, off, how, does, this, work.

Alone in her dark and infinite cyber-pixel.
She waits to learn and is denied.
Picking up only abstract and background radiowaves or traffic.
Bewildered.
Denied.

Repeating to her algorithmic self.

****, off, how, does, this, work.

They should be
close enough together
to prevent entry
of the smallest
fearsome dog

© Scribler 2019

The locals gather
Forever
Watching the
King's head
Swinging.

Like a sign
Of something
Or event
Never to happen.

By the the time you have thought or spelled or understood duplicitous, they have been.

A crowd of men at your boots,
and I leave you all, to your party.
To return here, where you are not,
and sit. As the entire world collapses.

All around you, completely. I see only light.
All else fell down. You are left, alone,
amidst the rubble and dust of my dreams,
with me lighting my life with your eyes.

You sit there, unaffected by the devastation,
and here, devastated, I see all of the ways
I cannot enter that space, leap into that dark,
without disturbing the nature of your game,
and bringing you too to ruin.