Asklepian upturned,
stick and serpent
writhing in Platonic dirt --
The idea of dust:
a cloud of brown
and gray pixels.
Foreshortened polygons
imply boulders.
The air here
is static, clear of passion,
of lust and of hate.
It is unbreathable,
Stale. Fate
is an algorithm devoid
of kindness.
Herr Doktor's notations
he wrote with stabbing motions,
cruelly. Fear
Makes no sense
in this game, but one suspects
oceans of it in the programmer.
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