Digital Ghosts

We cradle screens like wounded birds,

our voices trapped in pixeled words.

Each notification’s shrill demand

a world that thrives on trembling hands.

The algorithm’s whispered lie:

“Alone, you’ll never reach the sky.”

We curate lives in filtered hues,

while loneliness, unposed, accrues.

But gardens grow where hands dare touch

not metrics lived, but moments clutched.

A friend’s laugh, raw and unretouched,

can heal what no app ever hushed.

Disconnect. Relearn how veins

can pulse beyond Wi-Fi’s thin chains.

The self, unplugged, begins to root

in soil no tweet can dilute.