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The screen glows like a scrying pool
fed by rivers of unseen current.
We lean in, thirsty,
and the glass drinks us back-
a silent transfusion
of attention for algorithm.
In the clinics they call it progress:
new serums slipped into the blood
like whispered incantations
under halogen moons.
The body keeps its ancient score
but the ledger is rewritten nightly
by hands that never touch skin.
Four thousand kelvin above the streets-
cold white fire,
the colour of interrogation rooms
and morgue refrigerators.
It bleaches the night until the stars forget their names
and moths circle in suicidal prayer.
Every tower a needle,
threading the air with invisible silk.
We walk inside the weaving,
ears ringing with a song
too high for bones to hear,
too low for dreams to name.
The bees feel it first,
then children who wake crying
for reasons they can’t pronounce.
Somewhere, someone adjusts a dial
and calls it safety.
Somewhere, something else
takes notes in a tongue
of magnetic scripture.
We are the trial.
We are the control.
We are the quiet variable
learning how brightly
a soul can burn
before it remembers
it was never meant
to be the bulb.
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