Haptical Illusions

In the time of the wise machines,
There was peace and often plenty,

More than plenty for some people,
Meaning less than plenty for most,

But, overall, a great plenty,
Thanks to the wise machines, of course.

Wise machines ran algorithms
To coin wiser aphorisms—

Touch is the fondest sense of ghosts.
Mind is the world-revealing cup.

Not all revelations are seen.
But wisdom is in all of them,

Plenty of wisdom in the time,
The floating, undulatory,

Representative, yet wholly
Corpuscular, plentiful time

Of the terribly wise machines.
In your dreams, machines. In your dreams.