The glass screen flared with images
Transmitted by the littlest things
And whistling to us their condition.
Canvases changed with age, replaced
With plasma and crystal displays,
And the images inflamed;
Coloured and cleaned and screaming.
We passed the information from these,
And magazines, onto each other
Via keys and computer rebootings
Until the shapes of events had been
Sent back to themselves and, with
The output of their original acts.
The ignorant world for once heard
What was being
Said of it and remedied its visuals,
And we good folk boasted of our
Roles, and told taller tales to all who
We mailed, but when more were
Falsely conceived we
Declared war on the story weavers.