caught between screens
like a rock and a hard place
laced with beams of green,
the command line screams into
dark color schemes that maintain
a clean theme of extreme
control
in a world lacking

whoami
to say sudo i'm
just the pseudo-king of
all the pings
i see'em sing ICMP but
the ether stream contains
more than pings,
no it flings about
all the things modernity
can't think without
like some machined spring
spewing strings
made up of  
every dream we need
fresh from the
version-controlled source

the click clack of
mechanical keys on
a thick black
switch-backed board
in tic tac mint condition
is the sound of
strict syntax enforced,
if there's a problem
you fix that,
else the big bad bugs
will kick back with
sick bags of tricks
that make you
wish that there was better
logging for life's mistakes