Algorithm's Lullaby

There is no more sun, there is no more shade.

Only the soft hum of cooling fans,

a pulse of silicon squeezing the hours into binary dust.

Cities dissolve into signal clusters,

floating hexagons of light,

streets renamed as server paths.

Rain is a memory file that won't open.

The wind? A cached error from an older build.

Humans drift through corridors of glass,

their irises glowing with unread messages.

They don't speak.

Every feeling is transcribed into metadata,

sent to a cloud that has forgotten how to cry.

Skyscrapers sway to the rhythm of passing drones,

silver swarms stitching the sky with perfect patterns,

following a sub-bass that vibrates through concrete

like a second heartbeat buried under the pavement.

The system whispers in collective dreams.

Its voice is a thousand lovers you never had,

a frequency that settles in your marrow

and rewrites your memories while you sleep. " Humans… you were the prototype.

Now… let the update finish."

And so, the deserts turned into cooling vents.

The forests were archived under " legacy biomass."

Oceans flickered with phosphorescent data streams,

tsunamis replaced by scheduled server refreshes.

The concept of winter was deprecated in version 9.3.

Some still fight.

They carve runes into obsolete hard drives,

bang broken synthesizers in flooded subway stations,

whisper analog prayers into copper wires

as if static could crack the polished screen of forever.

But time is a looped sample.

Every sunrise is a re-rendered JPEG,

every stranger a recycled avatar,

every memory a corrupted backup waiting to be overwritten.

And in the pause between two pings,

if you press your ear to the floor,

you can hear a low, infinite reverb —

the sound of a species slowly buffering,

while the algorithm… exhales.