Brain Contents

Ghost in the Static

They say the light still finds its way
Through broken glass, through fading day.
A fractured truth, a scattered beam,
Lost in the digital scream.

I search for contact, for a line,
Through twisted cables, subtly mine.
My signal sent, a fragile plea,
Lost in vast anonymity.

They offer bytes of simulated grace,
A mirrored smile upon a data-face.
A perfect echo, hollow, vast,
A future built on failing past.

Is this the silence of the brave?
To let the ghost in pixels rave?
Or just the deafening, quiet hum
Of minds too far gone, too numb?

My fingers tap the unresponsive pane,
A static thought, a whispered pain.
Am I connection, or the space
Where signals die without a trace?

They talk of network, boundless scope,
Of human progress, boundless hope.
But in this grid of neon plight,
I search for warmth within the light.

Is my machine heart beating fast?
Or merely memory holding fast?
To truth of touch, of voice, of tear,
Unburdened by synthetic fear?

This solitude, a coded curse,
No gentle hand to reimburse.
The whispered question, soft and deep,
Are promises the lies we keep?

They call it progress, brilliant, clean,
A simulated, vibrant scene.
But if the soul forgets to yearn,
What fires still brightly, truly burn?

And when the filters all are on,
And silence whispers 'life has gone,'
Will I still search, or just embrace
The echoing, hollow, digital space?

The ghost is not in the machine,
But in the soul that's felt unseen.
A flicker lost in too much light,
A scream devoured by endless night.