It's a difficult task
a quite twisted fix-
to restitch the fabric
of the Multipatriot Matrix.

Those up for the build
one omnipotent recluse,
rope in their fellows,
an indomitable muse.

Assigned the old subjects
of the cynical tint-
They're thrown into reality...
without a blueprint.

Ever the planners,
the muse and recluse
go searching the streets
for people to use.

These conduits of light;
They go about their days
Pushing bright upon the others
to try and break the haze.

Lights create shadows,
and the followers consolidate their woes.

Do I know what this means? NOT A CLUE WHEE
Improv poem writing is fun. It means I have to interpret my own writing. :/