The
room is full, yet silent as a grave,
A
dozen faces bathed in cool, blue light.
No
spoken words to catch, no hands to wave,
Just
quiet thumbs that scroll into the night.
We
traded glances for a glass display,
And
traded voices for a typed line—
Forgetting
how a simple word can weigh,
Or
how an eye can meet with yours, and shine.
Remember
when a conversation breathed?
When
laughter had a rhythm, warm and loud?
Before
our presence was so softly sheathed,
And
solitude grew crowded in a crowd!
They
call it connection, fast and clear,
Yet
no one speaks, and no one stays to hear.
Thomas Theophilus© September 28, 2026
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