THE COMING DARK AGE

The coming dark age will be full of electric light

and streams of color from black screens,

glowing in the twilight of our own making,

we sit, eyes wide and empty,

absorbing the flickering pixels

that promise escape, deliver nothing.

 

Cities hum with the low drone of a million machines,

speaking a language of code and silence,

while the stars disappear behind the haze

of neon dreams and smog-choked ambitions.

we've traded the fire for the fluorescent,

the sun for the screen, the warmth for the cold glow

of artificial illumination.

 

In the crowded streets, faces lit by phones,

the lonely walk together but alone,

each heartbeat a solitary echo

in the concrete canyons,

where once there was conversation,

now there is the hum of data,

the endless scroll of lives not lived.

 

The poets write in binary, the lovers touch through glass,

and the children, oh the children,

they grow up knowing only the synthetic dawn,

their lullabies the soft hum of servers,

their dreams filtered through algorithms.

 

The libraries are empty, the books gather dust,

the pages yellowed and brittle,

whispers of a time when words were enough,

when stories were told by the fire

and not by the cold, calculated voice

of a digital assistant.

 

The coming dark age is bright with the glare

of screens that show us everything

and nothing at all,

a parade of images, fast and fleeting,

leaving us hungry, unsatisfied,

always searching for more.

 

In the shadows, the old gods laugh,

knowing we've built our own chains,

each link a like, a follow, a click,

a cage of our own design,

bright and shining, but a cage, nonetheless.

 

We've forgotten the taste of rain,

the feel of dirt beneath our feet,

the sound of the wind in the trees,

lost in the din of notifications,

the endless stream of updates,

the false promise of connection.

 

The dark age is here, and it is bright,

too bright to see the stars,

too loud to hear the whispers

of the earth beneath our feet,

too fast to catch our breath.

 

And yet, somewhere in the distance,

there is a flicker, a spark,

a reminder of what was,

of what could be,

if we dared to unplug,

to step out into the night,

to feel the darkness,

to find the light within.

 

But for now, we sit,

bathed in electric light,

eyes wide and empty,

waiting for a sign,

a signal, a something,

anything,

to break the silence.

 

(C) Richard Gordon Zyne