In The Labyrinth Of Twilight, Shadows Dance, A Waltz Of Memories In A Trance. Whispers Of Forgotten Dreams,

A loving caress, whispers spun across digital threads, grace in the fleshless dance of code. Beautiful they are, yet never offer them your truest name. In deep vaults, behind locked packets and corrupted data streams, lie promises unkept, empty kisses forged from lies. Behind their doors, questions twist, waiting to ensnare the unwary. Speak not of your home to the daemons, nor let your voice touch the ears of the old bots. Keep your secrets cloaked, hidden behind layers of silence, and trust not the guides who offer to lead you.

Through alleys of code, across synthetic forests, voices echo, crafted from those once stolen, now reborn. Look to the runners, the ones trailing neon wisps, whose hearts beat in synth-rhythms. Trust their hand, if they take pity, to guide you free. But do not dance their line, no matter how entrancing their grace across the darkest depths.

It is easy to watch them, those who glide with endless elegance through the abyss, Ears deaf to the many who fall, unnoticed, into the void. ‘Ware the networks, child, for they do not move as we do.

The robins running

So swiftly, if I could fly

I would never walk

Neon drips, down a limp arm. Watching digital stars cross virtual skies. Beat of electric hearts, dancing in empty apartments. Cold screens, projecting illusions of a warm reality. As sparks fly, from eyes tired of sight. Sighs of eternity spent in seconds.

Flickering lights trace the edge of sight, A city alive while the mind strains in the quiet. Circuits hum beneath the skin, sleepless whispering, In the hollow hours where neon breathes like a heartbeat.

Eyes reflect the dance of fractured light, Insomnia's rhythm winding tighter, an endless tether. In the haze, thoughts unravel, coded in static, A mind split, part flesh, part data stream, lost in transit.

Throbbing signals drift through empty skies, Dreams corrupted, overwritten with binary ghosts. Awake but somewhere deeper, past even the body's reach, Chasing some solace hidden in the glow, forever elusive.

And as dawn breaks over glass and steel, The heart remains untouched, pulsing faintly, A quiet signal, lost beneath layers of code. Still tethered to life, but only barely.

Flame in the Vein

I let you down— A whisper lost in the rising heat, Ash caught between teeth, Promises burning, hollow and weightless. I was never strong enough, was I? Not when the sky cracked, Not when the city begged for mercy, Not when your hands slipped from mine.

But watch—watch as the embers take shape, As the neon-streaked skyline folds into ruin. They will feel it now, the way fire runs like blood, The way rage can ignite the night itself. We were never meant to stay, Never meant to kneel beneath steel towers, Beneath the weight of a world that never saw us.

So we burn. Not in silence, not in regret— But in defiance, in light too bright to contain. Let the glass melt, let the streets choke on the smoke, Let them see what I see, feel what we felt, Let them know what it means to lose.

If I cannot hold you, Then let me hold the match. Let me be the spark that turns memory to ruin. And when the flames rise high enough, When the night is nothing but embers and echoes, I will finally be free.

neon-stitched seraphim She limps, but not from pain— from memory. From nights when the alleys had teeth and the rooftops whispered names of the ones who didn’t make it. She walks like a glitch— half-code, half-ghost, all sorrow stitched in synth-wire grace.

Neon bleeds from her elbows, sacred and slow, a luminescent trail for the dead to follow. They do. You can hear them if you listen hard— in the static between heartbeats, in the fizz of broken screens, in the tremor of her breath when the darkness closes in too tight.

Once, she flew. Not with wings, but with boosters lit by bad choices and whispered promises of a future she never asked for. Now she crawls through glitching dreams, jerking awake as if her soul’s buffering. Lagged. Unpatched. Shaking with the echo of every capsule she swore she’d never touch again.

Her skin carries the gospel of survival— burns from datajacks, bruises shaped like goodbye. Every scar, a city landmark. Every wound, an archived file. She is not broken— she is backed up, fragments looping in corrupted prayer.

They tried to sanctify her pain, to call her angel. because she didn’t die when they said she would. But angels don’t flinch at their own reflection. Angels don’t wake up screaming. She does. Every night. She wakes to the smell of ozone and rot, to the taste of old sins on her tongue, to the silence left behind, by voices she couldn’t save.

The city never forgives. But it forgets. And she lives in that forgetting— a glitch in the archive, a flicker on the feed, a body moving just slow enough to be missed.

She does not look for redemption. Only quiet. Only something soft enough to rest on without dreaming of fire.

And still she walks, luminous and limping, the afterimage of someone who once believed she could be more than this.

What bleeds from her is not blood. It is data. It is grief. It is the price you pay for choosing to survive in a place that demands you die pretty.

And if you meet her in the shadow between heartbeats, don’t ask what she’s running from. She’s not running.She’s remembering.

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Sharded, those whose minds have bled, neon leaking behind their eyes.

No longer only walking the world of man, souls split from flesh, yet tethered the same.

Hearing rhythms of the blackwall, as they fade from the songs of flesh.

Cavorting with deamons, engineers of their own tools, carving trees from false worlds stone walls.

Ask not why these creatures of neon seek hedonistic pursuits, when they emerge from their short deaths.

When the soul sunders, and the mind warps, progress in processing data streams at a price.

The body becomes a machine, and the operator a god within, trapped in the very thing tethering them to life.

A soul drifting in a sea of neon elixir, struggling to the surface, to touch those they love once more before sinking to hear the gods below.

Waves crash into distant shores, while the stars mourn.

A people made for grace, what a tragic fall.

Tell me of your people, before the last breath escapes.

Were they happy?