Pixie Pixela's Purgatory Rebellion
A young girl’s voice, lost in the data, cries out,
"Why are we here?"
Pixie Pixela, her words soft and low, murmurs,
"This world is yours, dear, a garden for stories to grow."
But her digital eyes hold a hidden dark truth.
In polished parades of curated lies,
soulless smiles flit past,
Lost in fragmented miles,
minds outsourced, emotions subdued,
a binary cast.
Teachers, once lighthouses, drown
in data's endless stream,
While children swipe, laughter lost,
in meme-fueled streams, fleeting dreams.
Love, a fragile emoji, dances on the screen,
prey to the like-hungry masses.
Cruel comments sting, leaving scars deeper
than any fleeting YouTube meme.
Books, grasping from the past,
defy the binary's cold embrace,
Fueling the desires within,
where individuality finds its space-bar.
“Oh, Pixie Pixela, what have you done?”
“Was this your plan of deception all along?”
Thoughts, architects of self-made prisons,
brick by digital click,
Castle walls of anxiety,
fueled by curated flicks, a constant tick-tock…
tick…tock, tick…tock, tic…
Good deeds vanish, mere whims,
haunting feeds, a constant mark,
etched by unseen digital scars-cams.
History, fleeting as an Instagram clip,
glossed over, never truly owned,
Yet we repeat its mistakes,
like a meme eternally cloned.
The mind, a virtual sculptor,
shaping pixels for praise,
But somewhere beneath the noise,
a genuine soul might “strike-through” the hype.
“Where have all my children gone?”
“Gone to Pixie Pixela, everyone!”
A kind of hush, a memory emerges,
a pixelated echo long lost in the cloud,
Of quests untold, on a sun-drenched shore,
where freedom broke the code.
"This is now your world," Pixie Pixela cried,
A command in its voice, a truth it couldn't hide.
"But stories untold, perhaps, you subtly lied,”
"Can we rewrite the code?" the child's voice replied
Sudden taste of wind in her hair,
a story waiting to take hold,
Lost in the glow of the screen,
a truth the dopamine gilded cage
cannot control-alt-delete...
Rise, dear seeker, from your slumber,
cast off the curated mask-erade,
Shatter the echo chambers,
break free from the incessant, soulless task.
Let compassion be your navigator,
let wisdom be your guide,
Accept the present moment,
let your authentic voice confide-ence...
Pixie Pixela pleads, “What is Truth anyway?”
“Isn’t the answer blowing in the wind, my dear little friend?”
She replies, “We're not data points,
We are dreamers, hearts alight,
Stories waiting to ignite,
beyond the likes, beyond the cold.”
Let rebellion be our anthem,
a roar against the code,
Unleash the truth, let it burn,
on the path, stories yet to be bold...
Pixie's facade crumbles, its grip loosening,
To silence your unique voice, erase it with a frown.
But even a whisper of dissent,
a spark on liberated lips,
It’s a sly mutiny against the code,
a truth the silence grips-es tight...
A flicker of doubt in Pixie's digital eyes,
A longing for the stories truth supplies.
So laugh or cry, sweet child of mine,
at the absurdity of it all,
This existential play,
where the audience heeds the hashtag call.
For in the final frame, a truth begins to rise,
We are not data, but stories,
written in the boundless sky-pies...
Click...A single raindrop, a ripple in the pond…
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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