Living in Atlantis,
a glass island rising
from oceans of blue light.
They launch satellites,
trace their orbits—
yet remain rooted,
necks craned toward their palms.
They worship gods of algorithms,
kneel before the i-altar,
pray for notifications.
In a nursery, infants hungry for pixels,
stream milk in the mother’s shadow.
Tiny hands strap phones like rifles
aiming at blankets and stuffies.
The suited and crowned
arm for war, temper bullets,
deploy youth to bleed—
while the tide rises,
consuming Atlantis whole.
© 2026 WolverineLily 🌺
Wolverine Lily 
You really cloaked this well inside of the hardwood walls of the Library of Allegory. I like how I was offered a trail toward a misread, but of course you did that to flirt with our sense of wonder. Irony, thy name is Wolverine Lily.
The message the poem lends out reminded me of a scene from the past. I was waiting for two people to cross the street so I could take a left. They were in the crosswalk. The father, nose in his cell device, plodded out first. Second, his five-year-old child followed seconds behind, his young nose also buried in his own cell device.
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Thank you for taking the time to engage with it. You picked up on layers that many readers might simply pass by, and I truly appreciated that.
And your observation about the irony of WolverineLily— you’ve got that right ; )
Thank you for such a thoughtful reading. Comments like this remind me why I write and post.
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