Day Eight

Half-closed eyes shake in their sockets,
Two by two, on this beleaguered train
To the noise of too much information.

The sound of the sun, too bright and sticky
The sound of too-hot metal on metal
The sound of life all rattling past, just
flashes of cars and crackling pylons
Carrying too much information.

These too-tired servers,
These fraught heaps of neurons,
Are over-loaded/under-informed.
Updating for breakfast, bytes for lunch
And sleep is simply buffering.

It's all too much, this information
Misdirection. Scant reflection.
Feeling like a wink of peace is
cause for self-reproach, and always
More, devour more information.

The sound of everything being important
The sound of the tracks, like industrial code
A mother threatens abandonment
Should a sweet boy dare to fall asleep.