Blade Shadows Blooming

The ground scrolls beneath our feet,
all of us bent-neck brightened by blue light,
information leaking like a wound’s slow drip.
The air hums with notifications and sirens,
a swarm of mechanical wasps staging an attack in unison

rehearsing disaster while we learn again how to duck,
how to move without touching,
how to recognize danger by its shadow
before it ever makes a sound.

What used to be rivers are now channels,
what used to be hands are now tools.

A blade sleeps inside the circuitry,
not steel, not myth, but intent,
compressed, coded, waiting.
We carry it like a second pulse,
a hunger disguised as efficiency,
a preparedness stitched into our syntax like a hidden seam.

The present chaos burns hot and fast,
a bonfire of headlines crackling with static and frayed nerves,
faces sharp with feedback, streets vibrating with anger.
Ash coats trust llike rust on forgotten gears,
language, memory, trust,
until even the loudest rage collapses inward,
starved of oxygen,
leaving only smoke and the illusion of quiet.

But nothing ends.

The heat seeps into the soil.
In the closed bloom beneath us,
new embers curling into fists underground,
unseen, patient, rehearsing shape.
They wait for the next clean morning,