I will tear the fabric of society—
not the suit stitched by hands of law and order,
but the veil, the gauze, the sterile symmetry
that keeps the chaos mute.
I will rip the threads of the universe
as a child rends wrapping paper—
not with joy,
but with the fury of not being seen
on the day of one's own becoming.
What is sky,
but uncertainty made blue?
I will dress it—
not in stars,
but in the costume of my scream.
Let the clouds wear my lament,
the sun my blistering demands.
Let thunder be syllables
only gods can translate.
I will fashion a garment from my grief
and lay it across the firmament—
an altar
an accusation
an architecture of ache.
Let the constellations collapse beneath its weight.
He must hear me.
He must hear me.
Let my voice burn its initials
into the retina of eternity.
Let the dark, that false omnipresence,
release him—
the silent architect
cowering behind atoms
like a fugitive genius.
Where is He?
I drag my voice across nothingness
like a net across water
hoping to catch a shape,
a shimmer,
a name that answers back.
There will be no stillness
until He is dragged
by the wrists of language
into this room of ruined stars.
I am not praying.
I am summoning.
I am stitching a new theology
with the thread of rupture.
I will tear the fabric—
not gently, not like a seamstress seeking correction,
but like a storm that remembers when it was god,
and never forgave silence.
I will rend society's tapestry,
pull its golden threads from the mouths of liars
who stitched hope into garments for kings
while the poor were left to clothe themselves in dust.
I will split the universe,
fold it open like a book too long unread,
press my palms into the inked void
and search for fingerprints that aren't mine.
Take the uncertainty of sky—
its fragile ache,
its blue pretending not to be black—
and wrap it in a costume of understanding,
tailored from the scream of creation,
hemmed by thunder.
Let it wear itself before god.
Let him see what he made,
and what made him.
Let the cosmos become theatre,
where I am not actor, but usher,
dragging light into the auditorium,
whispering, you must watch this.
You must hear me.
God, if you sleep in chaos,
I will unmake lullabies.
I will awaken the chaos.
I will pull you by your robe of stars,
by the throat of time,
through galaxies that stammer your name
but never speak it right.
I will find the true syllables.
Where are you?
I walk among the wreckage of your silence
and call it prayer.
I speak into the unresponsive all,
and name it hope.
I demand your presence,
not with reverence,
but with the fury of abandoned children
writing scripture in the dirt
with bloodied fingers.
Where is he?
If divinity is hidden,
I will become unholy enough to see.
If heaven is locked,
I will swallow the key,
and burst with revelation.
This is the sky confessing
it never knew peace.
Speak, God.
This silence is too loud to be divine.
