The Crumbling Space Around Me
These crumbling walls whisper an endless loop of static each night
Recorded voices, some once human, others generated by the machine
Both now come fractured through what remains of the optic cables
Across the barren worldscape, empty cities hum in a low voltage prayer
Twisted neon tubes flicker in a death spiral, slowly winking goodnight
While hollow-eyed believers of a false salvation, stare with anticipation
Waiting for the next surge of light, as if it had some new meaning
I breathe the dust of the crumbling space around me
It tastes like acid and forgotten alphabets, words we stopped needing
My mind is still sharp, or as sharp as a mind can still try to remain
For when silence became, the masses rose up, but not against the machine
They rambled in foreign tongues, crusaded with the digital language
Like opposing armies, opposing something they did not understand
They launched salvos of code, fired pulses of pure electricity
The details of the moment the machine crashed are mostly unknown
Only to the ghosts that fed them and the blackened banks of servers
Afterlife, when the sparks stopped sparking, and the fires became dust
The few that remained played the game of pretending they still belonged
To something, some reached for anything, lost were they without an identity
Stilled mechanical things refused to engage with anything but the rust
Scarcity ruled the land and those who didn’t fall, went deep underground
The ground cracks beneath my feet, dust rises from the open junction pits
There the multitudes of frayed cables look like roots of a synthetic forest
Sun bleached reds and blues twist and wind amongst the melted hunks of steel
Our air is thick, the stars above are counterfeit, and the clouds escaped
Time itself seems to come in waves, glitching, stuttering between moments
Moving like a dying film reel, every second is an echo of its own demise
Day and night still play their role, but neither holds the muscle to win
Shell-shocked minions still hold out hope, waiting for the great rebooting
When lights would once again flash, indicating that the machine was back online
Comforts of synthetic nature would fill their every waking moment
Luxurious and exotic pleasures only a few lines of code from their grasp
Each day their numbers are fewer, they wait, for that’s all they know how to do
Hours measured with mumbled phrases of programming languages
Fearful minds teetering on the edge of this world and another
I’m holding onto reality, some days barely, but still better than the minions
My trembling hands digging through the crumbling space around me
Sand and debris slipping through my fingers as I search for survival
Competition reduced to the elements, shortness of breath, and origami shadows
Outlines of the towering concrete and steel living complexes slowly eroding
Too, such is happening to my thoughts, as if my memory somehow revoked
But why I cannot say, for not once did I give my permission
Perception has taken hold of truth, matter seems to have forgotten its shape
Without warning, the crumbling space around me suddenly buckles
Imploding without warning, as if the cracked earth released a great sigh
Steel ribs caving inward like a collapsing chest, releasing a final breath
Glass fracturing into a thousand shards of light, and a million lost dreams
And then a great nothing, no chorus of voices crying out in despair
Not a care, not a second thought except the opening for scavengers to seek
I’m seeing the results of my alone time, watching the greatness slowly crumble
Numbers dwindling until one day they’ll be none, bones scattered in the wind
Electric-charged dust storms carrying what left of humanity far, far, away
This world is expiring, yet the universe continues as it always has
Maybe all this, this world of light, packets, and data mining
Maybe it was never real at all, just a dream in the mind of someone or something
Now being forgotten in the first moments of their morning
Additional Reading
R.J. (Ralph) Schwartz is an American poet, author, website owner, and online publisher. His writing spans several poetry collections—ranging from spiritual and romantic to fear-driven explorations—and even extends into science fiction. Notable works include:
-
Hope – Inspirational and Spiritual Poetry
-
Things That Go Bump in the Night – Poetry of Fear and Fright
-
The Lover’s Thread – Poetry for Couples
-
Poetry of the Human Condition – The Ups and Downs of Modern Living
-
The Secrets of the Moon (a sci-fi novel co-authored with his son Sebastian J. Schwartz)
Schwartz’s work is described as purposefully wordy, richly descriptive, and thematically grounded in nature, romance, antiquity, and forgotten histories. He writes regularly on platforms he manages, including The Creative Exiles, a collaborative venue for writers, and The Gypsy Thread, which delves into offbeat histories, pagan lore, and poetry.
- Two Sides of the Tracks – You Can Only Choose One - May 15, 2026
- The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral - May 11, 2026
- The Spring Collection - May 8, 2026
