It seems so simple – the white syringe

the blue pill – like flipping

a switch, reality interrupted…

suddenly inert, apneic, flaccid;

A new world now, dreamless, where

time is fluid, static, gone…

Tones pulse, pulses turn, faint,

erratic, quickly slowing, showing signs of

response to random twinge on

a distant horizon of perception

How can it feel to live, immersed in

a world opposite life – is it death?

or pseudo-death, with the throb of Pandora

on distant speaker, adding rhythm

to the vent’s sigh and drill’s climax

over static hiss of blood and air.

We natives here are invisible, forgettable

slipping along tendrils of consciousness,

tending, wraith-like, to tasks; slick stagehands

from the Truman Show, almost real

or hypnogogic dream?

Oh, you shall never see our world

or, should you glimpse it, never remember…

How could you ever know us, in our

sterile universe of cling-wrapped tech,

where you can only sleep, and we,

just beyond your grasp, never do...