The Myth of Progress
Ancient wires hum beneath fresh concrete—modem’s
warble is the dawn hymn of the shrine,
A televangelist’s smile sells futures
while pipes rot in real time.Skyscrapers glimmer,
gilding shadows that stretch across hunger and cracked floors,
A new tower rises, and so do the numbers of forgotten
and ignored.Smokestacks exhale against sapphire screens,
the city split—one half applauds, the other endures,
Each pixel-perfect ad campaigns for the next device,
as the ground swallows more cures.Applause erupts for satellites,
for rockets flaring through the soot,
While water thick with rust still pours from faucets,
and children wait for what progress forgot.
Billboards shine—digital prophets screaming from the sides of broken roads,
There’s an app to fix the weather,
but the sky still bleeds its load.Toxic clouds hover over servers burning hot,
A million eyes glued to storms on screens, while roofs collapse,
and hope is caught.A face unlocks a phone—identity reduced to code,
But hearts are locked in cages, empathy unsewn,
untold.The rich map constellations with their drones, name craters after kings,
But the poor find their gods in the creak of stairs
and the ring of charity’s strings.
Oceans paved in fiber, forests carved to house the grid,
Myths sold as promises: a world improved,
the past forbid.Data mined from lovers’ whispers, secrets filtered, pressed,
and sold,
History rewritten daily, trauma digitized,
compassion polled.No healing—only patch notes, no justice—just a trend,
A city burning quietly, and the feed claims it will mend.Hope uploaded to a network,
faith bought with PayPal cash,
Yet loneliness multiplies beneath the glare of every flash.
Progress chants like a preacher in a suit,
Promises of salvation, but the windows never open,
the walls never mute.Bandwidth replaces solace, design stands in for meaning,
A billion voices typing fast,
but none of them convening.Upgrades for the soul are sold in endless schemes,
But no child eats an algorithm, and no widow is loved by machines.Not a utopia,
just a softer cage—each button presses back,
And every inch of “forward” is a new disguise for lack.
Celebration for the milestone—another app, a smarter home,
Yet depression rates are climbing, the forests silent, empty,
overthrown.A revolution promised in code, but the screen still cracks,
And when the silence deepens,
progress only turns its back.In this temple
built on “next,” no heart is truly blessed,
Just a constant stream of polished ghosts,
rebranded as the best.Tomorrow’s altar is wired for display, not mercy,
not resolve,
And the world remains unchanged, just easier to absolve.
So the city sings, the phone unlocks, the towers gleam in spite,
The sky is burning overhead, and the gospel glows too
bright.There is no higher flame—just the same old fear disguised,
A myth repackaged every year,
with ancient blood still digitized.In polished tombs of glass and chrome,
the future feeds on shame,
And every line of progress ends—unchanged, unlearned, and unnamed.