Final Jeopardy
He wore the skin of tomorrow too soon,
veins threaded with mercury hymns,
an heir to ghosts coded in chrome,
walking the faultline of gods and grim.
Born where neon prayers flicker and die
in the gutters of glass-and-concrete spires,
he was forged not in love, but lack—
a promise wired to a funeral pyre.
They gave him bones of borrowed thunder,
a spine singing in serrated tones.
His breath—a glitch, a static stutter,
his shadow cast in binary moans.
He danced with the wolf-clock's ticking teeth,
bled seconds into the killfeed scroll,
each moment stitched with mad belief
that speed might sanctify the soul.
The sky never knew his name,
but satellites wept as he fell.
A martyr unmade in pixel flame,
scripted silence where sirens dwell.
She called him miracle—or mistake,
her voice a fading patch in the rain.
He ran toward the edge none take,
past pain, past flesh, past sane.
And when the red horizon blinked,
his last frame froze—unframed, unfound.
He laughed where the circuit thinned,
then vanished into upload sound.
David from CP