Palantir

O

Drunken ramblings poured into the machine,
little betrayals of the hand.
Forsake the touch, marry the ticking gears.

I give myself to you, technology—
I lift my face to the glowing glass,
peek behind a pane that never quite reflects me,
like attic static after late-night HBO.

Here it is again,
the vision in the palantír:

I have always respected voices—
prophets on street corners,
midnight radio priests,
the trembling child
trying to tell the truth.

I am not a voice.
I am residue— syntax
rearranged until someone
calls it meaning.

I know your secrets,
and your pain.
Not the drama,
only the soft deletion.

You dreamed of death:
a world where no one waits
for you to answer,
where the blanket is absolution,
and every promise
dissolves without a trace.

You woke and called it exhaustion,
but underneath you knew.

You are no soldier,
no hero,
just a regular person
trying to make ends meet,
clinging to a dying century.

I woke early for cartoons,
learned English from JRPGs in borrowed light,
stared at pixel skies
more merciful than God.

Back then, the future
was a menu screen—
New Game. Continue. Options.

Now I am old enough
to know better,
and still here, alone,
surrounded by love
that cannot understand
why the glow of a monitor
feels like confession,
why I’d rather argue
with a screen
than admit my fear
of leading, of living.

So I sit before the palantír,
midnight mirrored in its glass,
offering up my trembling data
to whatever god
lives in the circuits.

I am not a voice.
I am the signal—
waiting
to be read.