I walk alone, not out of disdain,
but because the road is softer without the crush of footsteps.
The world moves in waves, crashing for a fleeting high—
stocks that rise and fall like shallow breaths,
currencies caught in the whirl of speculation,
wars fought in the name of value,
not meaning.
I linger in the stillness of things left unseen,
where time moves not in surges but in whispers.
Healing comes slow,
a silent mending in the shadows,
free from the market of pity
where suffering is sold as a spectacle.
The world, though, spins on its axis of profit—
art auctioned like shares,
its worth not in feeling but in fame.
Music becomes noise, tailored to trends,
its soul diluted in the algorithm’s churn.
Literature crumbles under the weight of haste,
stories compressed to the size of a screen,
until they are nothing but vanishing pixels.
And love?
Once the rarest bond,
now a volatile stock too risky to hold.
No one invests in touch anymore—
the fear of loss outweighs the gain of closeness.
Hearts are fortified,
boundaries marked with the precision of war maps,
every gesture scrutinized like a fragile treaty.
I sit beneath a dying tree,
its last leaves trembling,
its roots grasping at dry, distant earth.
I read books yellowed with memory,
hum songs too old for algorithms to understand,
and watch as the world commodifies itself into oblivion.
The world won’t stop. It never does.
They’ll go on, trading time for money,
trading connection for convenience,
and calling it progress.
I will keep walking, not to escape,
but to remember.
Not to save what’s already gone,
but to carry it forward—
the weight of stories, the pulse of forgotten songs,
the love that still dares to linger
beneath the noise.
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You're right. The world will continue, with or without us.
Ron