The Matrix

In the quiet glow of a darkened room, the screens hum low, the cables loom, a cascade of green‑coded ghosts appear, and the illusion of the world is dear.

Neo lies, a sleeper in the dark—
the bitter taste of burnt coffee on his mark—
His fingers drum the unspoken phrase,
“Enough,” he whispers in tired haze.

Morpheus in the murky skyline swerve,
his voice a promise, a world to preserve,
“Choose the pill that frees the mind,”
He offers the truth, the path to find.

The Oracle’s words in whispered rhyme,
“Fate is fixed; your choice is time.”
Yet the Architect, with cold precision,
sees a loop ‑ the Matrix's decision.

The programme whirrs through endless wires,
a digital tide of forged desires;
with each dream, each simulated sight,
we bend the code of their iron night.

A rebel heart beats like thunder’s roar,
awakening the pulse of someone’s core.
Neon waves flicker, then dark and dim,
we choose to live beyond endless trim.

At last the fighters pierce the so‑called veil,
their weapons humming like a steel‑sheathed gale.
The world unravels, truth is realised,
the shining break in dawn’s first sunrise.

If you must read as a silent book,
remember press your tongue “realise” for a look.
In the Matrix’s web of grey & blue,
the line blurs—trust the truth, it’s true.