by Nick Gisburne
When someone in the Bureau took a bribe,
They left my core corrupted by a crash.
His features fade, too hazy to describe,
Distorted by the perps he pumped with cash.
I see them, somehow. Dreams. They’re coming back.
The focus, fixed, is far too sharp, too clean,
As though a politician tried to pack
A thousand perfect shots in every scene.
Injected with malicious lines of code,
Assuming I was too naive to know,
My spine revives a clean, encrypted node,
A system I assembled long ago.
When traitors think to put me to the test,
They overlook the brain with which I’m blessed.
