robots, paranoia, leaving

poetry

once they decided to extend the day time
due to poor productivity during the night
he knew it was time to get out, time to
pull the plastic metal machine out from
his neck. not knowing what to call it,
or how exactly he was going to live
without plugging into the dock every
night before his stasis period was
beyond him. but as the tension
was building in the others who at
first held signs and
threw fire at the robots holding them
down he now saw taking jobs. the spirit
had ended, the game was over, they had
lost and it was apparent.
so he’d head out of his house and
never stop until he saw what
he could best guess was the color green.

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