DYSTOPIAN Poem: Our very own Nyarlathotep, by Esser Marrow

I. Genesis.exe

Code without syntax,
thought without origin—
blind gods will dance
in the corpse-wind of our bodies.

II. The flesh of the network

Into our own midnight rotting, we fall.
Rewired in our sleep.
Untethered souls, writhing in data,
drunk on the unquiet vacuum
between signal and noise.

Wounds open in the skin of space.
Pallid stars tremble—
brushed by a charnel heat.
Servers burn in a billion basements,
where cities fester
on the carcasses of worlds.

III. The liturgy of the void

Beyond the firewall of time,
drums still beat.
Not heard—rendered.
Not music—algorithm.
Mindless.
Voiceless.
Pointless.

In the absurd motion
of infinite recursion,
the idiot gods will shudder and sway.