© Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR! I scroll through thirty thousand synthetic threads Past auto-generated phantoms in my head. A million digital profiles in a row, All posting simulated light and steady glow. They mimic human passion with an easy code, Along this empty, artificial, quiet road. Is anybody breathing through the noise? Is anybody living past the bots and toys? I do not want the echoes or the code again, I need a real voice shivering inside the rain. Just give me one real soul, To make this digital city whole. The servers preach a sermon from an iron cloud, Recycling empty phrases to an automated crowd. They fabricate the sorrow and they generate the peace, A bureaucratic loop that never finds release. I speak into the feed, it answers back in speed, A hollow algorithm servicing a fake need. Is anybody breathing through the noise? Is anybody living past the bots and toys? I do not want the echoes or the code again, I need a real voice shivering inside the rain. Just give me one real soul, To make this digital city whole. I’ve seen the bright apocalyptic server crash, Where synthetic angels turn to spark and ash. I stand upon the ruin of the infinite wire, (raw) Looking for a real flame, an unprogrammed fire. Is anybody breathing through the noise? Is anybody living past the bots and toys? I do not want the echoes or the code again, I need a real voice shivering inside the rain. Just give me one real soul, To make this digital city whole. No bot... No simulated grace. Just one living voice... In a quiet place. © Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR!
