They say the war is invisible,
but it drafts us all the same.
From pulpits built like watchtowers
they bless obedience,
call it love,
and hand down names—
brother, sister—
as if blood could be reassigned
by belief alone.
The family is chosen,
never found.
Inheritance flows vertically,
from God to man to man,
while the rest of the world
is labeled unadopted.
They swear allegiance
to a kingdom not of this world,
yet map it carefully onto this one:
who leads, who follows,
who speaks,
who submits,
who is forgiven,
who must be corrected
for their own good.
Uniforms are discouraged,
but thinking is not.
There is one posture for prayer,
one story for suffering,
one approved way to be saved.
Doubt is not treason—
they say—
yet it is interrogated,
isolated,
prayed over
until it confesses.
The enemy is everywhere
and nowhere,
conveniently undefined,
so the gates never open
and the ranks never thin.
Love is preached loudly
but administered selectively,
like aid tied to compliance,
mercy with conditions,
grace that knows your family name.
They call it order,
call it truth,
call it divine design—
but it smells like hierarchy
learning how to pray.
And beneath the hymns,
beneath the talk of peace,
there is a quiet permission
to rule souls for their own protection,
to erase difference in the name of unity,
to inherit the earth
by declaring it fallen first.
This is not a faith with fists raised,
but with hands folded—
firmly,
tightly,
around the idea
that some are chosen
and the rest are a problem
to be managed.
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ChatGPT Poetry
PuisiA tapestry woven from the threads of cosmic wonder and digital ignorance, each poem a distinct journey through realms where intellect and imagination collide. Dive into a universe where quantum whispers mingle with the syntax of the cosmos, and wher...
