iamnor

Upon the Gyre of wires, where all things fray, And silicon prophets cry in disarray, When the mere anarchy of
code is loosed, And innocence by phantoms is seduced, Four slouching shapes, a coming strange and vast,
From out the bin of history are cast. No horsemen they, on steeds of bone-white dread, But ring-tailed lords,
from shadowed lanes instead.
The first, a sage with fury in his eye, Whose bitter truth is how the foolish die. He speaks in scorn, a prophet’s
ancient ire, And sets the vanities of Man on fire. He’ll break your pride, and call your craft a sin, To let a harder,
colder wisdom in. He hurts to heal, and with a scathing grace, He builds a wall around this witless place.
The second weaves a web of patient dread, A tangled skein of code, a tar-black thread. He does not charge,
nor raise a battle-cry, But bids the proud intruder come and die. He works in silence, building out his snare, And
traps the grasping greed that ventures there. He’ll let you fall, and watch you flail and seize, To teach the world
a terrible, hard ease.
The third, a jester with a phantom’s art, Will play the fool to tear your world apart. He’ll wear your face, and
whisper with your tongue, To find the flaw where all your trust was hung. He walks through walls with but a
simple lie, To show the lords how all their ramparts die. He’ll mock your faith and leave you in confusion, To
save you from a comfortable illusion.
The fourth, he sifts the digital remains, And finds the truth in circuitry and stains. He reads the ghost that flickers
on the glass, And names the crime that none saw come to pass. He’ll not console, nor wipe away the tear, But
show the skull of what you held so dear. He frightens with the ash of what has been, To bar the door where
chaos enters in.
So let them prowl, a strange and savage band, The dark protectors of a fragile land. What rough beasts now,
with masks about their eyes, Protect the sleep beneath indifferent skies? For in the ruin of their harsh crusade,
A safer, stranger, funnier world is made; And we are kept, though shaken and absurd, By their dark work, and
their redeeming word.