Theo

Theo and the Giant Mango
 

In the shadow of a sprawling city,  

Theo stands,  

a figure carved from light and shadow,  

eyes glazed with the sheen of screens,  

the pulse of notifications echoing  

like distant thunder.

He reaches for the gaunt mango,  

its skin leathery and dim,  

once vibrant in the sun,  

now a hollow promise,  

a relic of what was,  

its sweetness choked by the weight of neglect.

Entitlement drips like honey,  

sticky and thick,  

coating the tongues of men and women,  

who walk past,  

eyes fixed on their own reflections,  

the world a mirror for their desires,  

each craving louder than the last.

Theo watches,  

as laughter curls into the air,  

a symphony of self-importance,  

while the mango droops,  

its flesh forgotten,  

a testament to beauty abandoned  

for the sake of ease.

He remembers the warmth of shared meals,  

the laughter that filled the spaces  

between stories and hands reaching out,  

but now,  

the hungry ghost of connection fades,  

replaced by a cold distance,  

a chasm wide as the sky.

In this city of gleaming towers,  

where voices rise and fall like tides,  

Theo whispers to the gaunt mango,  

a plea carried on a breeze  

that knows no destination,  

a reminder of what it means to be alive,  

to feel the earth beneath our feet,  

to nurture, to share,  

to reclaim the sweetness,  

lost in the echo of empty lives.