The Idol

Tied to my phone,

Goes with me all around.

My finger keeps scrolling,

Always up and down.

I see people on the left,

And others they swing right.

My hand begins to hurt,

But I gotta win this fight.

This brazen little idol,

Made of glass and wires.

Lights up my night,

As I burn the midnight fires.

No Sleep til Brooklyn,

Tiffany’s Breakfast is Cold.

Yet I’ll be scrolling,

Till my own gaze is old.

Why does this device,

Have such hold on me.

The Sounds of Silence,

Are becoming deafening.

I miss the chatter,

Of my children’s voices.

We cannot forget,

How we all make choices.

Today we must decide,

What matters most.

For tomorrow’s future,

Could be burnt like toast.

Should we stop the scrolling,

Put our device to bed.

Spend time with our family,

Or lose to a memory in our head.

© 2025 Marsha L. Brown