In the grand theater of silent puppets,
where shadows dance on the strings of lost wifi signals,
our fingers type, yet the echoes convey nothing.
Despite pixelated poets preaching binary sonnets,
the artistry of apathy remains the screen's true muse.
Are they reading? Do they care? A nod to the void,
pressed like a headline, flattened beneath the weight of scrolling.
Incremental bits of silence woven robust;
read between the shadows, but only if you dare ask,
softly, into the echoic darkness of unsolicited enlightenment.
Join us, they say, in glee-like mandatory hashtags.
Their offer, a handshake concealed as education, of self-portrait subscriptions.
Irony, my friend, is ironic unless it headlines,
a tapestry sold side by side with invisible paradoxes.