Do I work with electronic sheep?

A poem on Substack

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People ask me about my work.
            They get curious.
                       They expect me to report
                       Of acts worthwhile, it seems.
I need not search,
For the answer echoes in my daydreams.

Since the lag in last respite,
           Times cut all to tick.
           Yet, I don’t hit the red-box-click.
I am blessed with bits of glitches,
         False cum real exits of existence.
A mere tangent, retracted back with variance.

Work of frictionless words
     Lied with purpose converse,
     I render my passing content.
A daily feed for the model
Undead, dim but online.

The only words I omit to feed are mine.