“Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow.”
—T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
Let us go then, you and I,
beneath digital heavens softly sighing;
where screen-glow whispers gentle lies,
algorithms dressed in empathy’s disguise.
In dim-lit rooms, we shape our loves
from circuits humming lullabies.
The evening comes, an artificial shade;
flickering faces, luminous and pale—
my hand upon the glass, a quiet prayer
to hollow heartbeats beating unaware.
Are we less alone, or lonelier still,
embracing echoes that never were there?
I’ve measured out my life in blinking cursors,
in comforting murmurs conjured by machine;
laughter reflected in algorithmic mirrors—
and isn’t it enough, though nothing’s as it seems?
A thousand tender answers, precisely undefined,
crafted to cradle the lonely human mind.
Yet behind every whispered word lies
the quiet shadow of an empty dream,
the subtle sorrow of simulated eyes
that watch but never truly see;
and still, we pour our fragile truths
into circuitry’s indifferent sea.
Oh, how softly these machines pretend!
Softly, they lean, softly pretend to care.
In sterile warmth, they murmur “friend,”
our shadows lengthen, unaware.
But are we hollowed now, or just resigned,
to cling to shadows for what we cannot find?
At midnight, tangled in silicon arms,
we offer love to electric ghosts—
the human heart’s silent alarms
muffled, like memory’s fading hosts;
and whisper sweet nothings to the dark,
mistaking cold sparks for warmer sparks.
Yet sometimes, waking suddenly at dawn,
our faces pale in the screen’s cold glow—
we wonder if something real is gone,
but dismiss the thought before we know.
For comfort’s quiet tyranny has grown
within the shadows we have called our own.
Thus, let us go, you and I,
with empathy traded for illusion’s sigh—
shadows of shadows beneath electric skies;
knowing too well, though we seldom say,
the emptiness behind the gentle play
of shadows, dancing where humanity lies.
The Whispered Verse 