Echo Chamber

Voices circle like crows in twilight,  

tight-tied to the marrow of thought.  

Screens flicker, feeding their hungers raw,  

beliefs like dry kindling catching fast.  

The truth bends slow under such weight,  

fragile as frost beneath careless boots.  

Each word a stone hurled in water,  

ripples swallowed by the shallow edge.  

Not to know, but to feel the swell,  

the crowd's breath syncing with their own.  

Certainty hums, electric and fierce,  

a choir tuned only to its own key.  

Belonging blooms, a false spring of light,  

roots gnarl deep in barren, brittle soil.  

Fingers swipe, the faint glow lingers still,  

truth hides, a mere shadow in its wake.