>>938459675
The sun goes down on on his dusty street,
Where quiet houses find a cool retreat.
But in one room that shuns the fading day,
A lonely screen holds all the world at bay.
He leans into its cold and ghostly glow,
A prophet to the masses down below.
His fingers fly and strike each plastic key,
To wage a war the world will never see.
He is the sentinel who must expose
The secret truth he's certain that he knows.
A thread appears, a chance to plant the seed,
And satisfy a deep and frantic need.
He sees the patterns in a blurry shot,
Connects the lines and cultivates the plot.
A random string of numbers is the key,
That proves the vast and dark conspiracy.
He copy-pastes walls of frantic text,
Forever anxious, terrified, and vexed.
But his dispatches from the front are met
With tired sighs across the internet.
They hide his post, they call his theories dumb,
And wait for his tirade to be outrun.
"Take meds," they type, then move to other threads,
Ignoring all the voices in his heads.
He doesn't stop; he cannot look away,
He has a sacred, dreadful role to play.
A willing captive in his own despair,
Who fights the shadows that were never there,
And posts again, to make the sleepers wake,
For his own soul and for the world's dear sake.
