Palace of Palantir
Scanning your every angle,
guarding your cradle,
plotting your choices,
slicing the data
from just a blink
in your front-facing camera.
Beneath certainty,
under granite ground,
runs a current
that cannot be bound—
breaking all molds,
creating anew,
gazing the view
never to be drowned.
From that which sees afar,
a seductive story was sculpted,
woven one of a kind,
blueprints folded,
that is how
the golden palace of Palantir
was molded.
©Samia Oldman
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CONTEXT
After the Great Optimization a privileged group of people wired themselves tightly into the system by aligning with it and fully integrating. Systoics believe they’ve perfected themselves by stripping away everything that slows them down.
ABOUT
This standalone poem is a fragment of my dystopian fantasy collection The Hush Halo, where poetry, soundscapes, and visual art converge into one unfolding tale of New Realm.
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