We pass each other but never connect,

Souls in quarantine, eyes full of regret.

Each in their tower, each in their shell,

Surrounded by crowds but alone in this hell.

Screens glow bright, but hearts turn to rust,

Likes for our pain, DMs for our trust.

500 friends but no one to call,

Notifications rise, but we’re empty—that’s all.

Afraid of the dark, afraid of the fall,

Afraid of the cracks in the mask that we wore.

So they lock all the doors, hide under the sheets,

Life in a box with two-day shipping receipts.

Frozen ground, hearts locked down,

No more words, no more sound.

In the cold, demons play,

While the far right sells dreams to the fray.

They whisper, "The past was gold,"

But what was the past? Just fear, just control.

Now it’s the same, just digital pain,

Faceless and filtered, all love washed in rain.

Loneliness? That’s the new cash flow,

They sell us the dream but dig graves below.

Unfollow or unlove, pick your own fate,

While they carve their hate at the city’s front gate.

Turn off the screen, step out of the haze,

Take a stranger’s hand before they monetize the gaze.

The real war? Melting the ice,

Before their venom fills the air like a vice.

Frozen ground, hearts locked down,

No more words, no more sound.

In the cold, demons play,

While the far right sells dreams to the fray.

...So where’s the hope now?

Under the pavement, under the vow,

Under the glances that still burn somehow.

One by one.