The Eyes That Never Blink

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god has been replaced by  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.