I am locked in this cell, in an archive of time,
Where the stone breathes its mold in a rhythmic chime.
It matters not the century, the era, or date—
Without the network, I succumb to my fate.
My device is a brick, cold, sightless, and black—
A glass-faced corpse on a ruinous rack.
I hunger for connection to feed the machine,
To bridge the abyss to the world yet unseen.
But here, in the silence, the pulse starts to fray:
A soul without power is a ghost cast away.
Without fingers to tap at the cold, glowing pane,
No circuit, no tether, just shadow and stone—
A prisoner trapped, in the darkness, alone.
The cell
© Copyright: Ермаков Евгений, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126052802133
Свидетельство о публикации №126052802133
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