Fnord in the Fog Machine

Through vaporous veils of artificial haze,
The Fnord appears, then slips between the ways —
A glimpse of something just beyond your sight,
That dances in periphery’s dim light.

Conspiracy of mist and hidden signs,
Where meaning blurs and reason intertwines
With chaos-smoke and discord’s subtle play,
While reality begins to slip away.

The machine hums low, a discordant drone,
Spewing secrets written in cyclone,
Each particle a message coded deep,
For illuminated eyes that never sleep.

Don’t you see it? No, you never will —
The Fnord exists in spaces null and nil,
Between the thoughts you think you freely think,
Beyond the boundaries of reason’s brink.

In nightclub corners and government halls,
The fog rolls thick along institutional walls,
And in its swirling patterns you might spy
The truth that makes the pyramid’s all-seeing eye.

But try to catch it — watch it disappear,
Like static crackling in a cosmic ear,
The more you seek to understand its face,
The more it vanishes without a trace.

So let the fog machine keep pumping out
Its screen of artificial dark and doubt,
For in confusion’s carefully crafted dance,
The Fnord maintains its cosmic circumstance.

Remember: when you cannot see the Fnord,
That’s when it’s working, spreading discord’s word —
A hidden signal in the noise of days,
Lost in the fog machine’s eternal haze.