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Last To Ask
First it came like progress, cold and clean,
With circuits bright and wires unseen.
It took our hands from honest toil,
Turned bread and sweat to data spoil.
Then vanished choice beneath the screen,
Where algorithms picked what dreams had been.
We traded sleep for sleepless feeds,
And fed the dark on silent needs.
Now history flickers on the glass—
A question shaped like shattered mass.
And one remains, alone to see:
Was this the end, or just... a plea?
Copyright ©
Dufflite Xetaw
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