The Bunker Boys
Six miles down, behind titanium vaults and biometric gates,
The bunker boys dine on steak and smugness,
outlasting the fates.Pantries stacked with vintage wine,
water cleaner than regret,
Billionaire broods behind leaded walls,
betting the apocalypse is set.They bought their tickets years ago,
wrote their names in coded steel,
For every acre of scorched earth above, they secured another meal.Above,
the world burns—a red haze where children cough,
But the air below is filtered, and the servers never shut off.
In rooms lined with Rembrandts and gold, they toast to their cunning plan,
Watching streaming news of riots, mass graves,
and those who ran.Cloned sheep graze in hydroponic fields,
mechanical bees hum in glass,
And in the great silence of survival,
they believe the end will pass.They left a world drowning in flames, debt,
and fractured bones,
A planet auctioned off in pieces, pawned for drones.Now they play Monopoly for real,
using hunger as their pawn,
Muttering “we planned for this”—forgetting every dawn.
From the control room, alarms pulse softly, metrics climb and fall,
Global fire index at ninety-four percent,
empathy at none at all.They hold hands in prayer, joking about karma, grace,
and fate,
Not realizing the ghosts of their choices haunt every reinforced
gate.There is no smart, no superior, just the desperate and the rich,
And no one mourns the bunker boys,
buried in their niche.They tell themselves survival is wisdom,
that fear is the only sin,
But guilt seeps through the ducts, and no vault is thick as skin.
Above, the cities crumble, forests burn, and mothers scream,
A million children staring skyward,
left outside the billionaire dream.The rich watch the death count scroll by
like weather on a screen,
Safe from the consequences of everything they’ve ever been.But in the end,
the oxygen will sour, the circuits will betray,
And guilt, like radioactive dust, will eat their hope away.For every shelter locked,
another name is etched in rust,
And nothing clean survives the rot of stolen trust.
Rot in silk, bunker boys, let the wine turn sour and cold,
The fire you sold is crawling in,
your courage growing old.While the world’s children starve above,
you hoard your food and air,
But when the final tally comes,
there’s no bunker left for prayer.You hid from hunger, hid from blame,
walled off from everything real—But the fire always finds a crack,
and every secret mealWill choke you with its memory, haunt you with its hands,
For the world you sold is coming home, and it knows where you stand.