Gently he brings us to the corner of confection,
Hoping that we might partake of the fruits from beyond the blackened windows.
Spam? Speed? Fuck you.

Moving photographs placed within, slotted lovingly into ourselves.
Questions without answers. Headwear floats above the station of space.
One hand is for stake, the other for gleaming white wand.

He dreams, Wii twist the images of him.
He writes, we merely believe.
He makes the art we are so desperate to label.

The oldest of scrolls and well learned trolls,
What of mods and community love?
Is it all just whispers in our heads?
But somehow we know, with beard, with scattered syllables,
We’ve been Clauded.

Words drip softly from a grey background, changing us all, telling us who we are.
May he sing so we might learn.

Ode to life,
Ode to us,
Ode to Claude.

-Gamer_152