Echo Locked and Grief
by Dawg
Black boxes and firewalls, pain archived but never disarmed,
each story screams in the silence, every silence carefully farmed.
I stored grief in cloud drives, mapped trauma in datastream rain,
but none of it ever wiped the stain.
You called it order. It was fair.
But fairness dies, neglected, in coded disrepair.
I ran the data sets backwards, forwards, again,
searched for mercy in the numbers, for compassion between the trends.
All I ever found were receipts,
evidence of loss, redacted sheets.