My thumb performs an Aarti every night,
Across the glow of that rectangular light.
My morning prayer is not a holy word,
But checking all the news I haven't heard.
My gods are apps of blue and green and red,
They live inside the temple in my hand.
I offer them my focus and my time,
A sacrifice that feels almost sublime.
If I should lose it, my whole world goes dark,
I’ve lost my map, my money, and my spark.
I cannot call a friend or find my way,
And so I worship it anew each day.
My pilgrimage is scrolling through a feed,
Planting a silent, unproductive seed.
My offerings are pictures, bright and bold,
A story of my life, selectively told.
My confession is a post sent to the cloud,
Spoken in private, but for a global crowd.
My grandmother, she finds her peace in prayer,
In ancient hymns that float upon the air.
She bows her head to something truly vast,
A timeless faith, designed to hold and last.
I too bow my head, to this device so smart...
We hold two different temples in our heart.
Poet's Note
This poem began with a simple observation: the way we hold and interact with our phones often looks like an act of devotion. I decided to explore that idea using the language of worship—'Aarti', 'prayer', 'temple'—not to disrespect faith, but to question what we truly hold sacred today. The poem holds up a mirror to our modern rituals. The final stanza is the heart of it for me, contrasting timeless faith with our new technological devotion and asking which one truly brings us peace.