Fragments from a mind are torn- and from each a ghost is born- each with a different name.
For eight books have split my soul in eight- yet eight would not make whole. They leave me incomplete.
And the guides to which I bow all demand a curious brow be stained with blood as red as grades.
And I hear the ancient wheel that spun the age of coal and steel, its rhythm pulsing still.
"Rat-tat," it hums, "rat-tat, rat-tat. Do-it-like-this-and-not-like-that- or-you're-as-good-as-dead."
'Where is the 'power off'?' I muse, 'and what is it that we would lose?'
Do we dare find out? - Derek Yong Zher