Cities buzz louder than the wind.
While screens bloom with forests
no one remembers touching.
A river runs in high resolution,
looped endlessly for calming sound,
your digital rest stop—
though no fish breathe beneath the pixels.
We feed on blue light,
scrolling endless mouths
open for meaning.
Compassion a filter,
between ads for things
that make us feel alive
for a moment—
a moment too small to measure
before we buy again.
Time prowls in glass reflections,
our faces thinning to data,
our names reformatted.
What's your @?
Even memory tastes artificial now—
Feeding to the grid,
the For You Page.
A digital scrapbook,
trading love for likes,
plastic wrapped nostalgia,
edible for twenty seconds.
What is left of us
when we no longer hear the trees breathing?
When every sunset is branded,
every silence converted to algorithmic applause?
Time devours
what we pretend to preserve,
and we thank it,
as if being remembered
by machines
were the same
as being loved.
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