they sit in the corners, cold and
metallic, soaking in your mornings
your evenings, your late-night stumbles
home from the bar, half-drunk
your dirty laundry hanging on
a flickering LED wire.
the smart doorbells chirp like
electronic birds, always watching
but never singing, cataloging
the pizza guy’s arrival,
the hurried lover slipping out,
each movement logged, timestamped.
in invisible vaults somewhere,
your life collects dust,
neatly indexed—scowling at
the camera’s glare, a thousand
mundane truths stripped down
for algorithms that don’t sleep.
god has been replaced by
motion detectors, red-light eyes,
a panoptic cathedral of circuits.
privacy died sipping coffee
while location sharing lit
the funeral pyre.