Blue Screen of Death
 

Seven blades in the heart of the judge.
Now you're sick of the social drugs.
 
The mysteries of tequila and bourbon,
Everything reducing back to carbon.
 
Call me tomorrow. I won't be in.
 
For five decades you've lived on sufferance.
Now you've achieved complete indifference.
 
There's less to life than anyone thinks.
Fifty's the age for teenage angst.
 
Call me tomorrow. I won't be in.
 
The blue screen shining in the gloom,
The final level of the video game,
 
Cascades of static, speakers' hiss,
The point of failure where networks kiss.
 
Call me tomorrow. I won't be in.

K. M. Payne

If you've any comments on this poem, K.M.Payne would be pleased to hear from you.