Blind spot

Sceptical spine:
Open your eyes.

Sceptical chords,
they sing in your throat,
they breathe restless shadows
never coming to light.

A sound too loud,
A minute too slow;
A kite on the ground:
Acknowledge the woe
On behalf of the screen,
Admire the stain
too black to remove;
give up the fake world
that only exists
in the perfect dim light
of cold modern art

before we find
we are nothing but a lie
by all the dead numbed;
by living creatures,
invented and imprisoned.

Let us not fade to black.