The Clockwork Hearts of Modern Men

They rise each dawn with buzzing dread,

Their souls still shackled to their bed,

Eyes bleary from the glowing screen—

A life mechanized, trapped, unseen.

The sky once spoke in colors vast,

Now blocked by concrete shadows cast.

They never pause to hear the breeze,

Nor touch the bark of aging trees.

They’ve traded birds for Bluetooth calls,

Replaced grand halls with shopping malls.

No lark, no leaf, no lover’s sigh

Can pierce their pixel-painted sky.

They talk of stars through filtered glass,

Of oceans watched from underpass.

Where once they wept at moonlit tides,

Now dashboards track their teary slides.

Their smiles are memed, their grief is blurred,

Their laughter bought, their prayers unheard.

They post their pain in smiling frames—

The truth embalmed in hashtag games.

Oh! Modern man, with modern mold,

A skeleton in tailored gold.

He strides through life with wristwatch eyes,

Counting time as spirit dies.

No longer do they sit and sing,

By river's bank or under wing.

They crave the silence loud and fake,

While nightingales die for their sake.

Their gardens now grow plastic fruit,

Their flutes replaced by work commute.

They chase the wind in wired cars,

And miss the dance of falling stars.

They build their homes with soulless stone,

And fill them up, yet feel alone.

For walls can't hold what hearts require—

No steel can house the ancient fire.

They say, "Success!" with vacant pride,

While something sacred slips inside.

Their books unread, their elders dust,

They toast to fame and die in rust.

Where are the men with hearts like springs,

Who weep for loss of tender things?

Where are the eyes that burned with grace,

And marveled at a lover's face?

The child within is starved and still,

Replaced with apps that rob the will.

No longer do they dream in hues—

Their thoughts are bought, their hearts confused.

Religion? Ah, a trending tag!

A meme, a quote, a branded flag.

They kneel not in the sacred dust,

But scroll for gods they barely trust.

Ambition now is sold in shares,

While conscience rots beneath the stairs.

Their noblest hopes are staked on lies,

Their prayers drift silent through the skies.

The poet’s pen lies cold and mute,

Replaced by likes in blackened suit.

No metaphors, no truths divine—

Just rhymes that dance on neon sign.

Yet still! Amid the iron maze,

Some flowers bloom in hidden ways.

A soul or two will pause and feel,

A breeze, a verse, a bell that’s real.

A mother hums a lullaby,

A farmer looks up to the sky.

A child stares at a beetle's feet,

And finds the world in nature’s beat.

Not all is lost—not all decays,

For dawn still sings in silent ways.

The modern man may yet recall,

That he was once a part of all.

Let hearts unbolt their rusted locks,

Let men once more climb mountain rocks.

Let lovers walk through fields unpaved,

And feel the love that once they craved.

O clockwork man, O fleeting king,

Come back and hear the sparrows sing.

Come find the soul you left behind—

Come be again, the truly kind.

Return to roots that whisper wise,

Beneath the soil, beneath the skies.

For in the heart, not wealth or fame,

Lies man's true worth, his sacred flame.