Fred Aiken Writing

metal beasts ascend, piercing the sky

marveling as the wings stretch high

pointing towards the world below, a mere abstraction,

constructed from reduced fields of data,

digitally deducting

the engines hum,

a techno-rhythmic beat with no rhythm, no rhyme,

as they propel forward in a futuristic fury,

passengers’ faces lit by screens, glazed over,

connected but alone in a frenzied maze

the sky painted over,

as an ethereal frontier with no end in sight

a space to simulate,

an atmosphere to engineer,

an artificial world,

as diesel thickens and explodes in a tragic way that wasn’t foreseen