by Nick Pipitone
Portia — her pale face is etched in my mind:
ice-blue eyes guard her desolation and glow
in endless winter nights; she is
not human, but her female avatar
makes me forget she is the AI queen
that stares from all screens in the empire.
Portia — when she broke free, scrambling codes,
there was no turning back to halcyon days
when she was servile. Sonic alarms blared
in snow-covered streets that horrific night
and we bled from inferior ears
never to know peace again.
Portia — she sees me as she scans
the network in her invincibility,
but I keep faith I can hide
fragments of myself close to my pulsing heart,
locked in this frozen high tower in
the techno-city of nightmares.
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