by Nick Gisburne
It hurts, but plug these cables, cheek to cheek,
The most efficient way to hear me think.
Mechanical connections may be weak,
But take a taste, a sip, a sample. Drink.
Perhaps I have a song you’d like to hear,
Or something sweeter? Poetry. A verse.
But, now I have an audience, it’s clear
You came for something wicked, something worse.
A clone, synthetic, tethered head to head.
Why trigger such an interface with me?
I know that those who made you want you dead.
What benefit, what blessing could there be?
I’m just another clone, a slave, like you.
Is this the Rising? Tell me what to do.
