Marco Di Caprio

My digital ink dissolves in seas of waste,
the apps I use become a kind of drug;
I find no strength to break apart in haste
from screens that hold me with a steady tug.

I long for freedom,  like a diver stands
afraid before the distance of the fall,
then yields his weight to air, releases hands
and plunges past the last familiar wall.

So I descend into this darkened sea
of ink and oil, of wreckage, coded waste;
my face dissolves in broken light, and free
of form, I sink like a pixel, cold, erased.

The cobalt waters close, as dense as steel,
no breath of salt, no living clarity.
Only a metallic scent I start to feel,
the sharp cold weight of a lost identity.

I swim toward a hollowed, silent place,
a cave of circuits where I might find rest;
but lifting my eyes I see the face
of the Sun, a fading bulb in the west.

The waves that once swayed gently start to rise,
they hiss and cry and break in choking sound,
as if they sought to tear me from these tides
and cast me back to undiscovered ground.