The soul now speaks through hurried thumbs,
To where the endless river hums.
A heavy grief, a fleeting high,
Is just a post that scrolls on by.
Our feelings now are quick and clean,
A pixelated, shared routine.
A heart reacts, a thumb ascends,
Is this the way a friendship mends?
Our outrage, packaged for the scroll,
Takes its brief and weightless toll.
The headlines burn, the planet weeps,
While empathy in shallows sleeps.
We're fed the tragedy and dread,
Then shown a cat meme right instead.
And so we shout into the storm,
A status update to keep warm.
This scream is not of throat or lung,
But from a soul that feels unstrung.
It’s for the truth behind the post,
The lonely, true, and frightened ghost.
A cry for something to feel real,
Beyond the feed's synthetic appeal.
And so we tap our frantic plea,
For anyone to hear or see.
A choir of the disconnected,
Whose silent shouts go undetected.
This is the sound of modern dread:
A billion voices, left unread.
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