but no god came to listen.

buildings crumbled,

and with them,

entire histories,

entire futures.

we’ve funded this ruin with quiet hands,

signed blank checks for bloodshed,

called it “aid”

while the cries of children

disappeared into dust.

the rubble of gaza

a grave we dug

with indifference.

last night,

a man wrapped in power

stood on a stage,

his words heavy with promises

of ownership,

of exile,

of erasure.

he said we would take gaza

as if it were a trophy,

not a land bleeding.

he said its people

would be sent away,

to jordan, to egypt,

to anywhere but home.

and half the nation

roared their approval,

their voices a flood

drowning truth,

drowning humanity.

they called it defense,

called it destiny,

called it right.

but we are the invaders,

the ones who destroy and deny,

the architects of genocide.

we dress slaughter in the language of freedom,

wave flags above the ruins,

and demand to be called saviors

while the ground screams beneath us.

how abhorrent it is,

to become the monster

and still demand reverence.

to tear a land apart

and silence a people

while pretending

your hands hold justice.

we are the villains.

and history will remember,

even if we refuse to.

every brick,

every life,

every desperate plea

will testify

to the horrors we embraced

and the humanity we left behind.

wrapped the codebreakers in silence,

smothered the war-winners in brown paper,

as if history was a mistake.

they said it was about dei—

as if women saving their fathers,

their brothers, their sons

was some kind of modern agenda.

the same men who scream about erasure

when a slaver’s statue falls

have no trouble burying us,

sealing us away like we were never here.

but we cracked the codes.

we won the war.

and we will not be erased.

ripped safety from the sky.

a collision.

first since 2009.

metal screams, bodies fall.

and he blames diversity.

not himself.

not the cuts.

not the arrogance of playing god with lives.

the wreckage speaks louder than he ever will.

when nvidia stumbled,

when half a trillion vanished

like dust in the wind?

i was standing at the edge,

cheering, fists in the air,

watching the first cracks

form in the walls of the oligarchy.

i’ve spent years in cyber, in crypto,

watching innovation suffocate

under the weight of profit.

watched the united states

ban what it can’t compete with,

spinning fear into a net

to catch the fallout of its own failure.

and now, finally,

the first shots have landed.

not bullets—

but lines of code,

open, free, untethered.

i am cheering for china,

not for politics,

but for proof—

proof that progress doesn’t need

a price tag,

that power crumbles

when it loses control.

let them falter.

let them panic.

let the walls crack wide open.

i will be here,

cheering,

as the future rewrites itself

in open source.

how power rises,

how history repeats with a raised hand.

they call it “controversial,”

as if my eyes lied.

as if truth bends

to the weight of their words.

“we all know what it’s not,”

she says,

while the past howls in the silence.

“a roman salute,”

they defend,

but the Nazis know their own.

they smirk in plain sight,

their truth louder than ours.

this is how it begins:

with murmurs, with winks,

with the slow death of certainty.

the trains rattling toward smoke-filled skies,

the ash settling like snow

on streets paved with silence.

i look at you,

and I don’t see your excuses—

your small talk,

your righteous anger about gas prices or borders.

i see the uniform you’d wear,

the salute you’d give.

you think you’re brad pitt in inglourious basterds,

smirking, carving justice into the flesh of fascists,

but you’re not.

you’re the one marching with the flags,

the one nodding along in the courtroom,

the one saying,

“i was just following orders.”

the timeline is the only thing that’s changed.

the roles are the same,

and I can see yours, clear as daylight.

the side you’re falling to now

is the side you’d have chosen then.

you’d have been a Nazi.

not the screaming ones in propaganda posters,

but the quiet ones—

the neighbors, the teachers,

the ones who held the door open

while the world burned.

don’t tell me it’s different.

it’s only different because it’s you.

called it the greatest threat—

greater than hunger,

greater than fire,

greater than the weight of boots on our necks.

and now, the boots are on theirs.

the ones who cheered as our freedoms fell,

who whispered, “it’s not me they’re after,”

are learning what we’ve known all along:

whatever crushes the marginalized

is only sharpening its teeth for you.

we told you,

our suffering is a blueprint.

our bodies, the testing ground.

what they perfect on us,

they will unleash on you.

but you were too busy believing

you were the exception,

as if proximity to power

could make you safe.

they don’t care about your skin,

your faith,

your heritage,

as long as you kneel.

And now,

as the walls close in on you,

you’ll remember our voices,

the warnings you silenced,

the hands you swatted away.

It’s too late to turn back the tide,

but maybe,

just maybe,

you’ll wish you had listened.

but when a rich man raises a Nazi salute,

you submit,

rounding up scapegoats

he’s taught you to fear.

you swore you’d fight tyranny,

but now you’re the ones

“just following orders,”

submissive to a cause

you don’t even question.

the woke snowflakes you mocked

stand defiant while you obey.

alpha? no.

you’re servants in his empire of hate.

“we rigged it.

they didn’t even need to vote.”

tiktok censors the search,

erasing the proof,

but the words are out there,

loud, undeniable.

and the democrats?

silent.

not a pushback, not a fight.

because they’re not here to fight—

just two wings of the same rotten bird,

keeping the system rigged

while we pretend it’s a choice.

they don’t care who wins

as long as it isn’t us.

not one—

who walked into a school

and slaughtered children

has been sentenced to death.

Not. One.

but south carolina lawmakers

are ready to kill women

for seeking abortions.

for choosing survival.

for daring to own their bodies.

they let child murderers live

while sharpening their knives for mothers.

they protect killers,

then turn and call women criminals.

this isn’t law.

this isn’t justice.

it’s a sick, twisted war.

how dare they?

how dare they?

They’re erasing the archives. Taking sites down “temporarily.” Rewriting history while we’re too distracted by shock and awe to notice. I’ve seen this before. Maybe you have, too.

I once believed in my country. Wore the uniform. Served with conviction. But I can’t go back—not to a place that no longer exists as I knew it. The signs are all too familiar, terrifyingly too clear. Weimar saw the writing on the wall. So do I. But like Cassandra, I know most won’t listen.

This time, I won’t argue. I’ll record. Poetry on the blockchain. Words they can’t erase, revise, or bury. AI-generated, shaped in real time emotion—as fast as the ground shifts beneath us. Not to predict, just to witness.

I don’t know what comes next. But I know what’s already happening. And I won’t let it disappear without a trace.

Entry one. The first poem follows.