Lateral
Scroll of Sorrows
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We scroll.
Thumbs twitch in ritual
a liturgy of distraction,
fed by fear,
framed in envy,
filtered in false light.
Endless feeds.
Endless needs.
Doom served daily
with a swipe.
We drink the algorithm's wine
and call it truth.
We mistake attention for connection.
We forget to look up.
The heavens declare glory
but we are staring down,
faces aglow with the cold blue light
of curated chaos.
He waits
beyond the noise.
Not in the trending tab,
not in the comments,
not in the clamor.
Peace is not a post.
Hope is not a hashtag.
Christ is not a brand.
He is the stillness
the feed cannot give.
The Shepherd of restless souls.
The Light no screen can mimic.
The only notification that matters
already rang out
from an empty tomb.
Look up.
The scroll ends.
But the Kingdom is near.