(God Blinked) Ashes In Your Eyes Part 2
And if I die before the light breaks,
stand at God’s door, scorched and empty—
which god will speak?
Which god will dare meet my eyes?
When the mirror behind the pulpit is a splintered confession,
when the choir is only wind, hungry for something to sing,
when the ledger of saints is redacted, sins rewritten overnight,
every temple haunted by the silence of what we forgot to forgive.
Will the holy roll his sleeves and sift through cinders for my name,
or just tally the debts I dragged across lifetimes, a worn string of lies
knotted around my throat, the weight of dreams pawned for shelter—
will any god claim these bones, branded by every unspoken hunger,
these hands that shaped cities from mud and then starved in their shadows,
eyes burning out on headlines, skin chiseled by need, teeth ground down
to pay for another day of waiting for rain that never came?
If I knock on eternity, coughing up smoke,
with prayers that reek of wire, diesel, rust,
will a god even answer—
or just close the blinds, let the floodwater rise,
because no one wants to witness how far we’ve slipped from the script,
the script she wrote herself, in the dark, in the cold,
in the half-lit alleys of every city where gods went to die,
where we made shrines of screens, traded our children for solace,
and stitched our flag from hospital gowns and broken phones.
If there’s a god left awake,
let him stand barefoot in my ruin,
let her taste what I tasted—the iron in the air,
let him count my blisters, my debts, my unclaimed losses,
let her see the ghost behind my smile,
the panic between my words.
Let him kneel in the rooms I couldn’t keep warm,
let her learn the names of the drowned and dispossessed,
let him speak to me not in thunder or scripture
but in the voice of the last nurse on the night shift,
the mother with no safe bed, the child who knows
that heaven is just the word for not here.
And if the god who greets me
has ash in his eyes and hunger in her hands,
I’ll know he’s kin,
I’ll know she’s walked these blackened streets,
I’ll know he’s tasted the end and found it wanting.
So we’ll sit together in the burning dark,
quiet as fallout, honest as hunger,
waiting for morning or the next disaster,
or a prayer that isn’t just another desperate trade.
Because in this age, that’s all a god and a ghost can do:
hold each other,
and try not to flinch
when the world blinks again.