(God Blinked) Ashes In Your Eyes Prt. 1
No choir tonight—just the reek of hot metal and bone-dust.
God blinked and the night split open, radioactive, blind, unholy.
Shadows sprawling through every continent’s marrow, unspooled and raw,
History’s dial frozen on agony—on screens, in the pulse of our blood.
What’s left of paradise smears in the rain: plastic in the deepest trench,
rental contracts tumbling through cities gutted by fire and hunger.
Even the rivers cough—thick with rust, with memory, with spilled names
whispered only at the hour when loved ones beg the walls for mercy.
Did you think there was a plan? Watch the bees fail to rise,
watch the sun bleed neon over smoke-choked valleys,
gig workers folded into vans by freeways built for someone else’s dream.
The sky a powder keg. The ground a web of fractures ready to scream.
God blinked, and we answered with stock prices and influencer deals,
tried to edit the genome, hack the weather, mine the moon—
and every fix bled out somewhere: through a child, a mother, a reef,
every digital prayer dissolving, phone screens slick with tears.
Listen. There’s a reckoning queued in the midnight code of things.
Sea levels mutter revenge in the crawlspace. Oil shines on drowned wheat.
Shoes on the telephone wire where suicides left no note.
Cages for refugees rising under billboards that sell hope on a loan.
We named the storms, the plagues, the empty hands.
But nothing fills the gap where memory sits gnawing its own bones.
There’s a currency for sorrow, a market for nightmares,
and God—if she’s watching—turned away, eyes pricked with soot,
too many graves, too many endings, too many numbers never called home.
Let this be warning, invocation, confession, eulogy.
Ashes on our tongues, smoke in our hair.
We are what’s left in the places even ghosts don’t linger.
God blinked, and the world lost its shape in the glare.
What’s to come? Ask the ruined hives, the flooded towns,
the code that learned to lie, the cities priced out of mercy.
Ask anyone who’s stood ankle-deep in black water, clutching a photo.
This is the threshold. The open wound. The burning start.
Ashes in God’s eyes, and a thousand disasters hungry in the dark.
We played god in the ashes while God played alone in the ruins,
humming as he swept.
We traded heaven for algorithms, memory for steel and fraud,
prayers tangled in sirens, prophets drowned in flood,
made our kingdoms in the ash, found our blood in the ash.
This isn’t revelation—just recursion. Ashes to arrogance, arrogance to ash.