Overpopulation, Undersoul
Cities rise in howling concrete, dense with bodies packed for rent,
Life reduced to pulse and posture, no time for meaning,
no time well-spent.Apartments built like mausoleums,
vertical graves stacked in the haze,
Every window glows with breathing,
every floor a numbered phase.Children churned from circumstance,
parents blurred into the crowd,
Desire rationed, affection spent,
the hum of longing far too loud.Birth and burial overlap,
families fold into numbered lines,
History lost in transit, compassion trailing behind.
Each hour delivers thousands more—diluted names, erased intent,
Voices merge to static thunder, purpose absent,
patience spent.Every corner swells with faces, none remembered, all replaced,
Lives amassed for labor’s altar, warmth surrendered,
heart effaced.Screams and headlights fill the dark,
but deeper needs will never land,
Spirits strangled by the volume, sacred things unmanned.Production praised,
connection starved, faith abandoned for control,
Hope becomes commodity, and empathy takes its toll.
Society claims the numbers matter, fills the silence with demand,
But souls diluted in the masses slip through cracks of urban
sand.Technology delivers millions, each one grasping for a role,
Yet nobody teaches stillness,
nobody nurtures the soul.Growth mistaken for ascension,
progress mapped by sheer amount,
Yet in the din of ceaseless presence,
nothing sacred left to count.The market trades in comfort,
but affection can’t be bought,
Every crowd contains a thousand wounds that memory forgot.
Humanity splinters in the multitude, compassion dulled by overload,
Birthrights auctioned for survival, kindness crumbles on the road.Alone together,
packed and drifting, flesh on flesh with vacant eyes,
The warmth of touch is perfunctory, and love is rationed,
sanitized.Strangers jostle, children mimic, elders vanish in the din,
A billion souls all crying out,
but no one listens deep within.You mass-produced what can’t be measured,
and sacrificed the parts that feel—Now every birth is just a number,
and every ache is less than real.
Expansion worshipped, spirit hollowed, extinction simply on delay,
Empathy filed with excess—too crowded here for it to stay.Hearts
are boxed in tenements, stacked where silence used to dwell,
And somewhere in this engine’s clamor,
a generation learns to sellTheir secret hopes for manufactured dreams,
their ache for fleeting, empty praise,
Until the final echo’s faded and the city drowns in numbered days.So many bodies fill the future,
so many hearts denied their whole—A planet built for counting heads
and not a single living soul.