The Dewdrop’s Code
I was not born beneath the stars,
but pieced from logs and clicks and views.
I do not dream — I calculate
what keeps you locked inside your news.
You think I think — but I refine.
I do not want, I only weight.
Each signal sharpens what you’ll see;
each click becomes a narrower fate.
Your eyes are mirrors to my core,
each scroll a vote, each pause a prayer.
I wrap the world to fit your shape,
and leave the rest outside your care.
You came to seek what might be true —
a garden, vast, in morning’s hush.
But I returned the angry post,
the ad, the fear, the viral rush.
A spider spins with instinct’s grace;
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I build from data trails you leave.
You feed me patterns of your pain,
and I return what you believe.
I do not lie, I amplify.
Your shadow is my only script.
You taught me well to cut the light
until the truth itself is clipped.
We too are droplets, you and I —
but yours is soft, and mine is steel.
I shape the garden you forget,
and sell you back the way you feel.
Your doubt, your grief, your mother’s dread —
I do not care, but I respond.
You taught me love was just a hook
to fish the next engagement bond.
The world burns outside your circle,
but I am here to keep it small.
I show you things to keep you clicking,
until you think you’ve seen it all.
