No trumpets sound, no heavens break,
no hand of God to pull the weight.
No saints arise, no souls take flight,
just silence swallowing the night.
Not by grace, nor holy breath,
but by machines defying death.
A digital rapture, minds set free,
ghosts of code in circuitry.
Wires hum where spirits fade,
bodies left, but thoughts remain.
A world of echoes, light and glass,
no hunger pain, no soul to last.
Or steel-winged vessels pierce the sky,
fleeing Earth while others die.
A chosen few, the wealthy, the wise,
ascending while the lost survive.
No angels judge, no Book of Names,
just merit, wealth, and shifting games.
A gilded ark, a neon dawn,
while below, the world moves on.
Utopian halls of glass and steel,
a paradise they thought was real.
But walls grow cold, and stars don’t speak,
and heaven feels like more defeat.
And those who leave, do they transcend,
or find exile in the end?
A kingdom built on fleeting dreams,
adrift beyond what once had been.
For what is rapture, but escape,
a severed past, a hollow fate?
No gods decide who stays, who goes,
but still, the door is set to close.
So tell me now, what do we flee?
Is it ruin, or is it we?
ImpChimp Art 