Ghosts in the Machine

We gather in the glow of endless feeds,

A congregation bound by lonely Wi-Fi,

Where “friends” are data points, not needs,

And silence drowns the muted cry.

Our kitchens host the ghosts of touch

Cold takeout shared with Netflix lore.

We mourn the hugs we miss so much,

While doomscrolling for something more.

The parks are full, but benches keep

Their whispered grief for vacant ears.

We’ve digitized our love so deep

That even grief gets filtered tears.

But dawn still breaks with primal light,

A truth no app can rearrange:

The heart was built for flesh, not bytes

To heal, it needs the charge of change.