Cage of Discontent

Perhaps our alter-ego spider
Scaling the ceiling's pixelated terrain
Of cracked paint and shadow-light,
Will stream another silver notification,
A dangling hyperlink for our frozen attention,
Perhaps lure out the algorithm-fed demon
That doom-scrolls behind our eyes
Hungry for another fabricated feast.

Such are the psychic apps we run
While breathing cedar and pine
From a candle's artificial forest,
Trusting the mind's spinning cursor will settle,
Allow judgment to mute its endless alerts,
And silence the courtroom podcast
Of arguing selves trapped on repeat.

How long must our pencil stub
Lie dormant beside a drift
Of curled graphite confetti?

How this tool longs to vibrate our numb gaze,
To prod our stagnant fingers awake,
Launching words like sparks from a shorted wire,
Across the blackout district of the brain,
Seeking some distant lit window,
Some signal flickering through static,
To beam fresh meaning
Into unmapped territory.

How patient the spider and pencil,
Waiting through the buffering wheel of perception,
Enduring our endless loading screen,
Eager to merge their simple purpose
With our tangled circuitry of will.

But…

They know nothing of the screaming parrot
Pacing inside our cage of discontent,
Its feathers bright as warning graphics,
Squawking recycled opinions
In voices borrowed from comment threads,
Convincing us repetition is truth,
That echoes equal wisdom,
And worn-out phrases still deserve applause.

Unexpected…

An open window releases a rush of night air,
And innocence descends the spider's thread
Like a rescue climber dropped from the dark,
Swaying in slow-motion arcs,
A living pendulum of possibility,
Tempting once again
The pencil to rise above
Its rumpled launchpad
Of shavings and hesitation.

Perhaps tonight the cage forgets its bars?