“We Buried God Beneath Our Feet and Called It Progress”

I placed my trust in sacred mosaics—

ragments of light stitched into holy illusions,

where broken colors pretended to heal.

In empty pharmaceutical canisters,

I saw tiny tombs of hope,

plastic reliquaries rattling with silence.

And in ingenious music titles,

I searched for meaning wrapped in melody,

like coded messages from a world

that never learned to speak plainly.

Amidst all the exaggerations

fabricated delicacy

I had been conditioned to perceive

throughout my growth

I overlooked the morning whiff

bringing in the before sunset

as the birds chirps without my presence;

The sunlight appeared white like that of a clinic

We made the earth refuse its touch

but somewhere deities remain in slumber

awaiting our return

to rediscover them once more

We departed home at seventeen

No plan

No direction

just stolen wheels

on unfamiliar roads

each one staring back

like it had something to say

about who we were becoming

We looted storefronts like desperate curators,

stealing not just goods but fragments of identity,

as we repainted cultures into clever collages—

museum pieces stripped of meaning,

hung in galleries of irony.

We turned sunlit afternoons into elegies,

joyful days pressed into sorrow like dried flowers

between pages of a book no one finished reading.

We lifted our eyes to the heavens and cried, “Save us,”

but God lay dreaming beneath our feet,

entombed in concrete and silence,

envisioning a world reborn and broken—

shattered sculptures that once stood for grace,

newborns blinking into chaos,

paintings warped by floodwater and memory,

and high-definition screens glowing with perfect clarity,

broadcasting our confusion in crystal detail.

He envisioned a world stitched from contradictions—

pop lyrics echoing like neon prayers in midnight alleys,

while Shakespeare whispered in candlelit chambers of longing and fate.

Red wine spilled like passion, white like surrender,

He saw deserts—vast, aching silences—

and rainforests, tangled with breath and myth,

the earth dreaming in extremes.

He conjured young lovers, soulmates orbiting each other

like twin stars destined to collide,

their promises written in the margins of time.

He read suicide notes folded like fallen wings,

inked in sorrow and the search for release.

He felt the pulse of nuclear conflict—

a godless fire crouched beneath polished treaties,

ready to speak in mushroom clouds.

And through it all,

He traced the quiet wisdom of Eastern philosophies,

like rivers carving truth into stone,

soft, enduring, and immune to the noise.

He envisioned collapsing monuments

glowing gold pyramids

The United Nations towered like a cathedral of forgotten promises,

crumbling museums of a nation’s past—

dust-choked reliquaries of memory,

where history lay embalmed beneath cracked marble and fading flags.

all blurred into one quiet ruin.

And when He woke,

He said they looked no different to Him,

as if history and diplomacy

had become indistinguishable masks

worn by time itself.

- Anonymous

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