By Shailesh Shivakumar
We were baited—
worm-hungry fishes
drawn to the glass skin of gods,
powdered with pixels,
wired into smiles
three inches wide.
grins rehearsed,
masks of strangers
curved
to the arc of compliance.
i click myself
into selfies
tombstones
in a graveyard
of light.
ghosts hum
inside the frame.
i swipe
faces on rent,
bios rinsed in filters.
scroll through lives—
like infinite reels,
stitched in hashtags,
algorithm-knotted,
never mine.
i follow
rituals of code:
left, right,
left, right—
marching nowhere
in exact dissent.
a dance
without music.
the moment i type,
i dissolve.
a byte
in the algorithm’s belly.
i am a cart
pushed
by curated desire.
when i checkout—
i vanish.
a receipt without memory.
so 25th century:
swipe, shop, cool, hot.
blink. twitch. stream. scream.
first language—math.
second—python,
coiled
around the throat
of tomorrow.
a typo,
or autocorrect—
a fuse lit
under love,
a clan,
a country.
at home,
i am
homeless.
strip-searched God,
last seen
in the voice inbox.
no signal
in the holy spectrum.
One day only, the theme park pass—
Eat, ride, swim, and play as if time won't expire.
i am abandoned in
the carnival of lights.
stars born
every second—
neon dreams flicker
like eclipses
of my own shadow.
so i stay still,
mute
as a motion sensor light
untriggered.
to be good,
i apologize
in captcha code—
tick the box:
""i am a human.""
it tells me what to do.
its voice—
winter steel,
factory-smooth.
no monday.
no sunday.
only dopamine—
dripped
like an IV
into sleepwalking veins.
reflections ripple
on a cracked screen.
faces blink back—
fractured,
blue-lit.
notification chimes
haunt
hollow rooms.
ghost lullabies
for the breathing.
thumbs
trace
the ache.
skin remembers
the blue hum.
grief
smiles
into a phone,
posed
for upload.
a train of shadows
wears silence
like headphones.
above—
the cloud hoards
what the heart
once dared.
he swipes left
on the sunset.
is this
ascent
or collapse?
boiling
or slow frost?
flight or fall—
depends on the dream’s
angle—
already
abandoned
before birth.
The dilemma always is
when to stop.
The question always is
""what's next?""
And nothing—
nothing burns brighter,
than a dream
already come true.