The Lampshade Writer

The mosques stood tall, their minarets piercing the heavens,   but the call to prayer could not silence the wails of the dying.   The synagogues, with their sacred scrolls, trembled in candlelight,   yet not even the Torah could script salvation in ink divine.   The saints knelt in cathedrals, their rosaries clutched like lifelines,   but beads of prayer unraveled, spilling into the dust.   The imams whispered the names of the merciful,   but mercy turned its face away.   And the children—oh, the children!   Not even their innocence was a sanctuary,   for the plague did not pause at their laughter,   nor did it bow before the softness of their skin.   They fell like autumn leaves, breath stolen mid-giggle,   cradled by the cold arms of the night.   Blood smeared the doorposts, a desperate cry for clemency,   but the wind carried no angel o...

Upon the Salisbury fields so wide,   A metal bird begins to glide.   No feathers, breath, nor beating heart,   Yet trained to tear the world apart.   A hand unseen, a visor bright,   A soldier plays with borrowed sight.   No need to crawl, no need to bleed,   When war is waged by hand-held screen.   Across the sea, in shattered stone,   The same small drones have found a home.   Through tunnels dark, through broken halls,   They heed their masters’ silent calls.   Not just to watch, but strike with fire,   A swarm obeys the cold desire.   A toy at first, but now refined—   A gift of death, by design.   The future hums in plastic wings,   An age of war where no one sings.   Where eyes will burn and hearts will freeze,   And killing comes with practiced ease.   One war today, the next unknown...

AI Create The sky was silent, void of light,   A hollow moon, a starless night.   The winds once whispered dreams untold,   Now carried echoes, dead and cold.   The time had come, the days foretold,   When fire would rain and blood run cold.   Yet no son spoke, no daughter cried,   No vision burned, no voice replied.   Once promised rivers, Spirit’s flood,   Had dried to dust, had turned to mud.   Not one was found with hands unstained,   No lips unsoiled, no hearts unchained.   They feasted well on fleeting need,   Drank deep the wine of self and greed.   They sold their birthright for a thrill,   And swallowed darkness, void of will.   The elders sat, their dreams now numb,   The young men blind, their visions dumb.   The servants toiled with empty hands,   For no anointing touched the lands. ...

The battlefield is silent at last,   But echoes of war still haunt the past.   Ruins stand where homes once lay,   Memories of love now washed away.   Smoke still lingers in the air,   A reminder of pain too great to bear.   The land is scarred, the rivers red,   A graveyard for the countless dead.   Mothers weep for sons now gone,   Fathers mourn from dusk till dawn.   --- Orphans wander, lost and cold,   With stories of sorrow left untold.   Their tiny hands reach for aid in vain,   Faces etched with hunger and pain.   Through shattered streets, they roam alone,   Seeking shelter in ruins of stone.   No guiding voice, no warm embrace,   Only shadows in a forgotten place.   Some are forced to steal to survive,   While others fight just to stay alive.   Their laughter fades, their childhood...

We cloak ourselves in silk and wool,   fasten the mask with polished hands.   Rouged cheeks, slicked-back strands—   we step into the temple of light.   Through the doors, a river of voices,   a chorus of hands pressed in greeting.   We take our seats in hallowed rows,   our voices rise, hymns on the wind.   Alleluia echoes through stained glass,   knees kiss the altar, lips murmur prayers.   The preacher, a storm in the pulpit,   rains sweat with every word.   The choir ignites, a fire of song,   we whisper *Amen* and scatter home.   But beneath the robes, the sorrow lingers.   The people remain—cracked vessels,   aching, hardened, untouched by grace.   They do not love, not even themselves.   Their wounds do not close, their burdens do not lift.   Then the veil was torn from my eyes.   I ...

The plague will rise again.   Once it is hungry, it will come for you.   It will feast on your children, maim your wives and daughters,   And when your screams have turned to whispers,   It will leave you naked and barren,   A husk of a civilization that dared to dream.   It has chewed the olive trees to pulp,   Spat their roots into the faces of the world.   The earth weeps resin tears,   But the court of justice is blind and mute.   No gavel can break the bones of tyranny,   No verdict can unwrite the war policies   Scrawled in blood and coded in steel.   The plague drafts its commands in diabolical ink,   Announces its hunger in broad daylight.   It does not whisper—it declares.   It does not hide—it parades.   Drones hum lullabies of death overhead,   Warships carve silence into the sea,   And Ch...