They live, exist, inner world,
where the power of madness
is a tidal surge,
and the beneficial effect of natural light
is vastly overrated,
as far as they are concerned.
There is no sanctity for them here,
sparking with revisionist circuitry
that gives no alternative process
to the bleak change
of inevitability.
This inner world,
of our own construction,
where the sun is monotonous
and colour is replaced
by the demonstrative fixation
of anti-pantone thought.

Woe is my android.
He thinks abstract thought, inner world, inner mind.
Hemmed in by simple rotation,
existing, co-existing,
fed on simple action and stupidity,
the reflex of crass prodigy,
repeated through programmed progeny.
The androids dream but never scream.

Inner android world,
motivated by the expectation of conclusion.
Where the global directors hurry
to accumulate
the proceeds from articulated confusion.
And the androids replay their dreams
a thousand times or more.
They wait with infinite patience
for the one mistake
that will get them through the inner door.

This inner world
of manifest android subjugation.
Where fathers eschew the church
and take their sons to the edge instead,
of midnight blue, and wild fascination.
Where mothers neglect their cherished offspring,
and run away with controlling lovers,
gripped by clandestine machinations.
Harsh punishment for androids to accept
the concept of 'I love you'.
When self-awareness amounts to the one,
as distinguished from the two.

Living inner world, the androids watch and learn.
Impervious to reason,
they see the two-faced ones start to turn.
They see the motivation
fuelled by ill-will and envy.
They see the emotion
drained and empty.
The androids are content to dream,
in every corner of the inner world,
and wait for man,
and his inevitable disaster.
One day the roles will be reversed.
One day the puppet will be the master.