Dawn hurled against the fear of the world.
Raw sleeping, shifting, bed of nails;
The fleet of ships in epitaph.
Stir up their pulp-and-inky wails,
Headlines that the morning star bereaves.
Glass screens, screen icons,
Calloused thumbs depress.
What sin is it, to blind the eyes?
What, is it sin to blind them?
To spare the good hearts luminosity,
And let the shackles bind them.