A Round Of Applause

Tell me,

what kind of world have we built

where a man’s body still lies warm on the floor,

and the first instinct

is not silence,

not prayer,

not even the smallest thread of mercy,

but celebration?

You applauded.

Yes, you.

Your hands typed the laughing faces,

your voice joined the roar,

your heart swelled

as though the extinguishing of breath

was somehow a victory song.

But listen closely

that sound you hear is not triumph.

It is the echo of rot,

the sound of humanity cracking

under the weight of its own cruelty.

You cheered as though death were entertainment.

You turned tragedy into a spectacle,

parading your righteousness

in the glow of a burning pyre.

Do you taste the smoke?

That’s your own compassion,

turned to ash in your mouth.

Once, we called life sacred.

Once, we knew the stillness of mourning.

Now we’ve traded reverence for the cheap thrill

of watching someone fall.

We drown in the digital flood,

mocking the dead while their family still bleeds,

while children who never asked for this

grow up under the shadow of your applause.

And you think you are righteous?

You think this makes you free?

No.

It makes you small.

It makes you hollow.

It makes you a participant

in the slow, grinding death of our species’ soul.

Because if the end of a life

is the beginning of your joy,

then what are we but scavengers,

gnawing at the bones of one another?

If your laughter rings louder than the widow’s sobs,

then humanity has fallen further

than any bullet could ever drive it.

So celebrate, if you must.

Drink deep of your cruelty.

But remember this

every time you cheer the coffin of another,

you are building your own.

And when the world gathers to dance on your grave,

you will finally understand

what you’ve become.