This isn’t revelation, just recursion—ashes to arrogance, arrogance to ash. God played alone in the ruins, humming while he swept,

[Intro Spoken Voice written by Goli https://x.com/voidformmeta ]

And if I die before the light breaks— and stand at God’s door, scorched and empty— which god will speak? Which god will dare meet my eyes

[First verse] when the mirror behind the pulpit is a splintered confession, and the choir is only wind, hungry for something to sing, when the ledger of saints is redacted, the ledgers of sins rewritten, and every temple is haunted by the silence of all 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, my 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 my prayers reeking of wire, diesel, and rust, will a god even answer— or just close the blinds, let the house fill with floodwater and static, 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 could not keep warm, let her learn the names of the drowned and the 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 has tasted the end and found it wanting— and maybe, then, we’ll sit together in the burning dark, quiet as fallout, honest as hunger, and wait 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