cry, the beloved dreamcast

we are all sonsofbitches

my friend,

you entered this world

before the big clocks striked midnight,

and you foretold the end

of all the children of pixels and polygons

believed in their young lives.

you were a bolt of lightening

that struck this new landscape

so far removed from our cartridged brethern.

appeared and vanished,

but the world was molded

by your troubled existence.

easily, you took the reins of this beast

who spoke a language of ones and zeroes

and put this godly power

into your bulky, white controllers,

so we might all manipulate

the flames of Prometheus.

 

we were welcomed

to a new stage of history.

ancient warriors with giant swords,

curved blades, and wooden staffs

battled for their own souls

from cathedral towers

to the pits of hell.

promises of crazy money

lured us to the city streets,

and we lamented

the few yards left untraveled

to the nearest KFC.

my closest connection

between sanity and madness

was a talking fish

who demanded his sustinence

before dismissing me

until the clocks were manipulated once more

in order to gain his affection.

an entire arsenal of heroes and villians

three way dancing

to the final apocalyptic showdown.

mechanical arms unfurled,

and fireballs scorched the earth.

alas, only pillars of salt

left by the phony loyal

to mend these festering wounds.