IdiOdyssey

Silver wax forms the only tears the wires know
Technicians leave blobs of it, like cytoplasm,
Within the dark metal boxes in the room beyond.

There’s a wooden chair in this cold room, a scarf

For whatever fickle engineer comes to this glass,

Checking each light, each hum. A nuance of connection.

Worlds shift in that electronic sea; programmers manage

The constant unweaving of those threads, the reweaving

Of these ephemeral ones, while the engineer watches.

Any sign of silver wax at the sharp edges--new shadows

Show where the grief overflows, the traffic snarls, and

Repairs to the seas themselves must be made.

This was inspired by a word list from Wednesday's WordCrafters prompt...I don't remember all the words (some of the ones I do are highlighted above). Pretty sure most of them fell out during a brief editing purge when I transferred this from draft page to blog. The image that popped in from that set was a cold room with a window facing a bank of servers, a single chair for the only person who might enter the room and then, rarely. 

We're all there, right now. In those server seas and hoping that they don't leak unless it's to put out the fire that is silently burning out our spaces and connections. I'm going to go with feeling a little disconnected and, despite my great good fortune of having someone (and canine someones) here in the house with me, I'm feeling little fizzles as threads snap and connections go dark. 

And then, Merlin starts to snore and the darkness fades a little. Nighttime on the lake, rather than empty space. Sending as much as I can outward, hopeful. 

-- Chrissa