Screens glow like altars.
We kneel, thumbs twitching
prayers to gods of noise.
The loudest silence is
the one we scroll past.
Billboards bloom
like invasive flowers,
their petals of neon
masking the stars.
We are armed not with rifles,
but with endless feeds,
notifications detonating
in the pocket. The war is
not for land, but for attention.
Somewhere, a child waits for
a story that is not interrupted
by a ringtone.
The weapon is simple:
keep you from yourself.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 21st, 2025 06:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments5
A poem of warning that calls out on frayed wires to listeners that have put down the phone engaged in playing video games and watching tic tock. No one listens to the prophets or poets, eccentric or boring in a world of conformity, propaganda and action films. Well said Cryptic
Strange how they keep writing and prophesying even to an ignoring audience. 🙏🕊️
It is like poems that I write that even if read go unheard. Yet I keep writing
Like that song: “Vincent” “…they’re not listening still. Perhaps they never will”
Touché
This is prophecy dressed in poetry. You hold up a mirror and make us see what we’ve become: worshippers of noise, terrified of quiet. Brilliant and unsettling, Arqios. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks, Tittu. May the mirror be heeded. 🕊️🙏
Good write A.
Thanks O🙏🏻🕊️
Fine words Rik, it is always mankind that creates the problems.
Andy
Aye, my friend. That's always the case, it seems.
Keep 'em jumping, feed 'em crap. Their function is to exponentially increase our wealth - just don't ask: to what end?
Thickly and lavishly lined pockets seem to be the end in itself.
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