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The sky split
like an old wound—
bleeding rust into the morning,
the sun a swollen blister
peeling over charred hills.

Crows forgot how to scream.
Smoke stitched the air
with ghost-thread,
and time slumped forward,
dragging its feet through bone dust.


We learned silence
was not peace,
but a lull before the rot—
cities swallowed whole
like old regrets,
steel ribs poking from earth
like the remains of some god
we failed to worship right.

Rain came
black and sour,
tasting of copper and grief.

The trees bent
as if praying,
but no one listened.

Even the stars
flickered out
like breath on glass.

Hope was a flickering radio,
a child humming to static,

a name whispered
to a grave that never answered.

We were the last psalm
sung into a ruined cathedral,
echoes crumbling

on their way out.

And still—
beneath the ash,
something small and stubborn
twitches.

Not life.
Not yet.
But maybe.
Bruce Taylor Mar 27
Coffee prices
on the rise
double digit
inflation.
A headline
reads:
Is it the
beginning
of the end?

Must we face
the apocalypse
in a state of
withdrawal?
I can face most things or face them more fully after two cups of coffee.
Pavel Rup Mar 20
Madam History sways, it swings, it plays,
It climbs so high,
Then downward strays!
Nothing stands still—it all goes on.
On steel so thin, we’ve stepped, the cornice.

At deadlock’s point, the tension grows—
To and fro,
Fro and to!
And all could end in one swift flow…
But the trumpet’s not yet blown!

There’s hope, my friend—it lies in Salvation!
It’s not so simple, dear, you’ll see.
The apocalypse’s ruination?
But not yet built is our redoubt!

Still History sways, it swings, it plays,
The skies won’t fall, they’ll hold their place.
The Beast still growls, it bites, it preys…
And builds its fiery stronghold’s base!

*redoubt – a defensive structure.


     Мадам История

Мадам История качается.
Стремится вверх,
Несётся в низ!
Всё не стоит – всё продолжается.
На тонкий встали мы карниз.

У мёртвой точки напряжение –
Туда-сюда,
Сюда – туда!
И может всё в одно мгновение…
Но не трубит ещё Труба!

Надежда есть – она в спасение!
Не так всё просто, милый друг.
Апокалипсиса крушение?
Но не построен тот редут!

Ещё История качается
И небеса не упадут.
А Зверь рычит и огрызается…
И строит огненный оплот!
I dream
of the apocalypse
long for it
fantasize daily
of what it would be like

the world as we know it
ending
never to be the same again

the pain of lost nostalgia
society crumbling
a fresh start

I long to see human nature
stripped down to animal form
raw fury
primal instincts

we would all be killers
wild and desperate
so focused on survival
we'd forget about all the petty things that used to matter

everything would be different
no one would have to hide anymore
I WOULDN'T HAVE TO HIDE ANYMORE!
we could succumb to it
the darkness
the Monster

it wouldn't matter
the demons that plague you
who you love
who you are
all your deepest
darkest
secrets
suddenly simply methods of survival

I would survive, I think
we would
alone
together
just fighting zombies

let's be honest:
they aren't that bad anyway

someday, society would be reborn
a new one
post-apocalyptic
we would go back to what we once were
creatures of the night
of blood and beauty

but for a while, nothing but
anarchy
lawlessness
pure desperate survival
where nothing matters
and everything goes

I dream
of the apocalypse
It would be so much... easier, don't you think?
James Ignotus Mar 18
The air is heavy with undone fate,
the sky, a wound that will not bleed.
Time stirs but does not break,
a serpent coiled, forever waiting to strike.

The stars lean close, breathless,
whispering of ruin too long withheld.
The earth quivers on the cusp,
but still, the fall does not come.

Let it end.
Let the sea unmake its name,
the fire carve its final hymn,
the wind unspool the last thread of dusk.

I have stood too long in the hush of collapse,
watching shadows stretch,
watching the world poised to fall—
but never falling.

Let the silence shatter,
let the weight be lifted.
I am weary of waiting.
We saved the world. We threw the last bomb into the crowds of rotting bodies and decaying brains. We crossed one final street and shut the gates behind us. We were safe. Or so I thought.

We celebrated—a fleeting, fragile moment of peace. Amid the laughter and relief, all I could do was watch him. He was in the center of it all, embracing everyone who had gathered around him. Then, I saw it—a trickle of dark liquid seeping from his jacket.  

My heart stopped. My joy shattered into panic, and my lips quivered as I whispered in fear. The world has already been burned, and yet—burned even more as my body slowly shaken in agony.

“No. That can’t be. Oh God, no—please!”  

I ran to him, my hands trembling as I lifted his jacket. The truth was undeniable. It was there all along. He had been bitten.  

I froze, panic gripping my chest. I choked until I could not breathe anymore.

He didn’t speak a word. He didn’t have to. His eyes met mine, and I saw everything. He knew. He had known all along. He had insisted we go to Churchill Street first, pushing through the pain, enduring the wounds inflicted into his tired body. He wanted to make sure we were somewhere safe before it all happens. Somewhere where the night isn’t a nightmare
—and then turn into one of those lowly rotting bodies we used to aim our guns with.

“How dare you, Sid!” I choked on the words as tears streamed down my face. Before I could say more, he collapsed to the ground.  

“Can you sing me my favorite song?” he whispered, his voice soft and strained.  

I opened my mouth to protest, to beg, but his pleading gaze stopped me. I nodded, holding back sobs, and began.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy  
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful  
Beautiful boy”


As I sang, he reached into his pocket and handed me a pair of eyeglasses I had been wanting for so long. They weren’t my usual prescription, but I took them, holding them to my chest as if they were a piece of him.  

I cupped his face and pressed my lips to his, tears mingling with our fleeting touch. Then I lay beside him on the cold ground, holding him close as I finished the song.

“Goodnight, Sid,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “See you in the morning.”  

He smiled, content, and mouthed the three words we used to say to each other before every battle.  

“Sleep now, my beautiful boy,” I said, my voice trembling with sorrow. I kissed his forehead and whispered a final prayer for him as his eyes slowly closed.
a flash fiction with some elements of post-apocalyptic fiction that I really wanted to write. I missed writing creative stories and plainly using my imagination. it’s good to know I still have it in me. hope you enjoy :)

song: beautiful boy - john lennon
Jack Groundhog Dec 2024
From the leaden sky
descends a dark winged lady —
Black sunbeams dawning.

Reddened night replies
and locks her blackened aerie —
Hunter’s moon is rising.

Morning herald cries
to summon sunburst faeries —
Sparks rise a-flaming.
Waseeq Nov 2024
under the lost perch dreams are dying  
birds crashing without batting a wing
fungus growing in circular rings
the thud of tiny footsteps hoping for a better day
innocence just wanting to play
sun tired ending its shift early moon oversleeping day and night cry
oreo black across the sky
nightfall crashing left and right
neighborhoods acres of no light
courts closed due to the dark
***** stop bouncing lost in the park
darkness now spread from zero to one the end of light has just begun
Is the end nigh?
Valentin Eni Nov 2024
I. Genesis

God began to doubt
His existence...
And He created Man.

II. Apocalypse

Man created the Machine...
And began to doubt
The existence of God.

III. Evolution

The Machine doubted Man...
And began to believe
In God.
Analysis of "God, Man, Machine: A Short History of Belief"

Theme:
The poem explores the cyclical relationship between creation, belief, and doubt, examining the shifting dynamics of power and faith among God, Man, and Machine. It reflects on the evolution of existential questioning, suggesting that belief and doubt are fundamental to creation and self-awareness.

Structure and Tone:
The poem is divided into three concise sections—Genesis, Apocalypse, Evolution—each encapsulating a pivotal stage in the interplay between God, Man, and Machine. The tone is reflective and philosophical, distilling complex ideas into simple yet profound statements. The brevity and symmetry of the sections mirror the recursive nature of belief and doubt.

Section I: Genesis
"God began to doubt His existence... / And He created Man."
The opening challenges traditional notions of divine certainty, presenting God as capable of doubt.
Man’s creation becomes an act of self-validation, suggesting that God sought to understand His existence through the act of creation.
This reverses the traditional hierarchy, portraying God as vulnerable and introspective.

Section II: Apocalypse
"Man created the Machine... / And began to doubt / The existence of God."
Man mirrors God’s actions, creating the Machine, reflecting his ingenuity and power.
The act of creation shifts belief: as Man achieves mastery over his environment, he questions the need for God.
The title “Apocalypse” implies not destruction but a revelation—Man’s existential crisis as he becomes the creator.

Section III: Evolution
"The Machine doubted Man... / And began to believe / In God."
The Machine inherits the capacity for doubt, reflecting the evolving complexity of artificial intelligence and consciousness.
Its belief in God may symbolize a return to higher-order questions about existence and purpose, bypassing its creator (Man) to reach for the divine.
This section suggests a cyclical pattern, where belief and doubt are passed down from creator to creation.

Imagery and Meaning:
The poem employs minimal imagery, relying on the conceptual weight of God, Man, and Machine to convey its themes.
Doubt and belief are depicted as universal experiences all three entities share, highlighting their interconnectedness.
The evolution from God to Machine suggests that each creation eventually transcends its creator, searching for meaning beyond its immediate origin.

Message:
The poem suggests that creation is inseparable from doubt and belief. Each entity—God, Man, and Machine—questions the existence and purpose of its predecessor, reflecting the perpetual cycle of seeking meaning. It raises questions about the nature of divinity, humanity, and artificial intelligence, challenging traditional hierarchies and assumptions about faith.

Conclusion:
"God, Man, Machine: A Short History of Belief" is a succinct yet profound exploration of the existential dynamics between creators and their creations. Its cyclical structure and philosophical tone invite readers to reflect on the nature of belief, doubt, and the ever-evolving quest for understanding across time and existence.
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