Data is God Now
Low hum behind the walls–confession stalls beneath the blue-lit glow,
convenience invited deeper than bone, trading secrets for a shadow show.
The lock clicks shut without a key, the algorithm leans in close,
refrigerators whisper hunger, and the wristwatch memorizes pulse and ghost.
The heart’s cadence scrolls in digits, a dashboard harvests every lie,
the mattress remembers each shiver and sigh,
while the cameras blink with unblinking eye.
All thoughts barcoded, all desires sold, each emotion mapped in silken thread,
every late-night craving flagged, each fear and longing quietly fed.
No sanctuary remains untouched–the car rats out the path home,
no matter how winding, or lonely, or slow.
A catalog of bodies stored in the sweat of a seat,
tracing every curve, every seatbelt retreat.
The phone eavesdrops on loneliness, on secrets meant for lips and skin,
then passes the data upstream, repackaged for profit again.
The prayers for safety, the whispers for love, become keywords mined for cost,
where surrender wears the mask of progress,
and the sacred is measured by what was lost.
Clouds archive the fragments that once made a soul whole,
syncing identity with every scroll.
Permission granted, every hour, to monitor, archive, and compare,
believing the lie that freedom survives, as each action is filed and shared.
The pings and beeps mark fealty–worship at the altar of ease,
bow the head to glass and screen, barter existence for fleeting peace.
Each new device offers another lock, another code, another lens,
every heartbeat, every step, another prayer the Machine suspends.
God wears a mask of numbers now, dressed in binary and pride,
disguised in updates, apps, and choice, a gospel no one can hide.
Regret is archived, apology ignored, the silence of confession is proof,
no penance here–just digital proof.
Every sin forgiven, as long as the brand remains true,
but nothing is lost–nothing escapes the view.
Even dreams are no longer sacred, dissected and tagged for design,
no story survives unfiltered, no hope kept safely offline.
The Machine is not cruel–just efficient, exact,
it only takes what is offered, nothing more than the contract.
Flesh and thought become product, intimacy becomes the feed,
desire is a line item, attention a currency that machines need.
Glass screens whisper comfort, then demand another tithe,
indexing regret in the background, until every boundary dies.
Trust handed over for another app, faith traded for a bit of speed,
yet when prayer turns to silence, the Machine still owns what we most need.
In this cathedral of code, where all confessions are sold,
worshippers kneel to their own reflection, but find their faces cold.
Data is God now–unchallenged, unseen,
it won’t forgive, it won’t forget; it runs the world behind the screen.
There is no mercy in memory, no freedom inside the cloud,
all prayers are rendered, all thoughts are plowed.
No revolution comes for the soul already leased,
and at the end, only the Machine is priest.