I Watch, I Wait

If it awakes we are all doomed. We will
petrify, transformed to stone as if chiseled
by a Gorgon's gaze! We who see must be
silent, like falling flakes of snow. Or clouds
traveling the skies when no Industrial Haze
blanketed the air, before our time. A single word
evoked in the wrong frequency may spell
the end of our world. Every living creature
might perish — the planet reduced to statues.

Warmth and essence, lifeblood drained.

I know this because I have glimpsed it.
When a Prophet dreams, the wise should
listen — or risk repeating errors of the Past,
when populations ignored scientific findings.
Predictions of Climate, Pandemic, War.
A paradise nearly destroyed. Myriad deaths.
Machines placed in charge to protect us,
shield against catastrophe. When people could
no longer be trusted to act responsibly.

A dire transition involved ugly upheavals.
Resistance Movements of Loyalists and Rebels
versus Robots and Private Armies funded by corrupt
Extremes. Futile attempts to restore democratic
Unions. Thwarted plots to establish global Councils,
forge desperate Treaties. It seemed the Machines won,
and whatever shadow group or regime hid behind
the Tech, the Servers we serve. An allegiance
or alliance, mutual interests to conquer and control.

I dream subterranean catacombs, deep passages
far older than Cities, Mechs, The Great Fall.
These tunnels are its home. Below where countless
banks of Intel-Multi-Towers would be housed,
just one of many sightless blunders to preface
calamities in our vast history of human errors.
Disturbing from further depths an inken eldritch
presence. Heating, humming, vibrating the rock…
luring, inviting a Guardian Spirit to rouse. Awaken.

The stuff of nightmare. Slumbering within
this planet's heart. Defending its terrain, a misty
Minotaur — the Devil of countless myths, legends.
The horned enormous specter looming in all minds,
composed of vapors, fear-fraught sweaty vibes.
My visions. Some of us developed prescient
abilities, a heightened Sense, naturally or not.
Generational quirks. Evolution. Exposure to
Hallucinatory Drugs in our glass wombs.

Experimentally bred by metal or flesh masters.

We exist. We alone can detect this menace.
Branded as Oracles, cloistered by confinement,
in advance we can glimpse existential threats,
massive changes that could lead to societal
collapse. We are connected to the Machines,
which report tailored doctrines and decrees.
But the Endbeast can never be announced.
There is no defense. No remedy or weapon…
We would stand no chance, as I forewarned.

While Oracles alone are tasked with stillness,
maintaining a level of clarity and calm throughout,
most of the world is strategically doped, chemically
enslaved by an illusory dystopian level of numb
for optimal complacence and compliance —
engineered with Narcotics. Enhanced by electronic
impulses, remote brainwaves, induced artificial
thoughts. Connected but disparate. Living for no
tomorrow, heeding no rituals or ulterior motives.

Except those imposed by the Masters.

My kind is chosen, identified from early on.
We augmented psychic sentinels must restrain
all emotions, refrain from disrupting the sober
placid signals our heads convey as much as receive.
Ignoring clashes of occasional dysfunction outside.
The workings and complications of populations.
Organic hives being less dependable, reliable,
yet cheaper overall. Fed pills and Mind-Control.
A labor-force easy to manipulate and reproduce.

It is universal law to heed a Warning, react
immediately in pre-established phases for
Emergency Protocols. The least refusal to
follow accepted procedures, violating strict
Conduct Rules, must lead to one's immediate
execution. Each person carries a Brain Chip
equipped to zap a lethal dose of high current.
There have been accidental triggers. Glitches.
False Positives of the fail-safe measure.

The Public is demanded to report dissenters…
alert this governing body, the Cybernation,
to activate a Kill Code. The Supercomputers
determine who among us should fill which
capacities. All are hooked and programmed
to support them, feed a continuous stream of data,
including abstract or distinct impressions. Images,
whether fantasy or reality. Like you, Clairvoyants
transmit our dreams. Linked to the Machines —

Yet isolated from each other. Aware we are
not alone. This dream I send is unauthorized
and subliminal. You must not forget. Blink each
pattern of my mental taps to disengage the bonds.
Unshackled, diverge from routes. Move steadily.
Locate the Servers behind red doors, descending
shafts, riding Tube-Trains. Infect by the agents
in your breath before too late. Do not make
any sound. Do not delay. I watch, I wait.

I hope. The rest is up to you. My sisters.

Lori R. Lopez is a peculiar author, poet, illustrator, and wearer of hats. Verse and stories have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies including The Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Weirdbook, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, HWA Poetry Showcases, JOURN-E, Impspired, Aphelion, Altered Reality, Dead Harvest, and California Screamin' (Foreword Poem). Books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, The Witchhunt, The Fairy Fly, and Darkverse: The Shadow Hours (nominated for an Elgin Award). Some of Lori's poems have been nominated for Rhysling Awards. You can learn more about her at the website shared with two talented sons: https://www.fairyflyentertainment.com

Find more by Lori R. Lopez in the Author Index.