Like Dusk

There is a psychic poison, self administered, in the age of living light. It seeped from the plasma of dark prophets, whose allegiance to themselves wrought the only gospel. The scripture of machines, chanted across cybernetic borders by bots and human alike. A collective unravelling at the behest of charlatans who hoard the decay. The great unwashed drown, while the unclean pretend purity. They sit on a throne of the backs of the unwell. A citadel of eyes fixed on you and the hum and buzz of their greatness and desire for computer sex. They promise paradise on fire, a planet burnt to escape the one they torch, and vow your dreams are grafted to their hubris.