Bink bonk went the Tron eating silicon bits
and the lovely trees Daphned about the orchard
formerly as young girls ungainly looped behind ―
their quirks of charm fresh as a wave
through the golden dry acres.
Wit-free after long offgassing
as the trees so near to the underworld
come a-moulting glass feathers as in molten-flowing,
now cool, like cellophane, as ambience ―
Tron! Glory ‘o the dry gold hills!
The programmer is lonely, isn’t it, Joe?
Well, see through it, Jack, said the VRP.
A dodecahedron of open faces
where swim the universes,
laving, then breaching, firewalls;
In the realm of the emanating strophe ―
in one realm, the place and it’s cargo poised
with most of all of it at the back, awake;
and the food Tron must survive on
bubbles like the sun in his throat.