Truth, stripped to the bone:
The angel is a render.
A mesh of polygons, lit by virtual suns,
exported from a machine that dreams in RGB.
The wings are symmetry-mirrored,
the book a low-poly cube with a gold shader.
No breath moves the pages.
No eyes see the text.
You are in a room.
Four walls, one window,
air thick with the smell of your own skin.
The floor is cold.
Your phone buzzes with a notification
you will ignore.
There is no tower.
Only the ceiling above you,
cracked like old skin.
The light is a bulb,
flickering because the wiring is tired.
No guardian.
No silence with meaning.
Just the hum of the fridge,
the creak of the bed when you shift.
Your name is not written anywhere
except on forms you hate filling.
Your fate is the next breath,
and the one after,
until there isn’t.
You are meat.
You are electricity.
You are the brief, bright accident
between two darknesses.
That is the truth.
No sky.
No wings.
Just this.
The angel is a render.
A mesh of polygons, lit by virtual suns,
exported from a machine that dreams in RGB.
The wings are symmetry-mirrored,
the book a low-poly cube with a gold shader.
No breath moves the pages.
No eyes see the text.
You are in a room.
Four walls, one window,
air thick with the smell of your own skin.
The floor is cold.
Your phone buzzes with a notification
you will ignore.
There is no tower.
Only the ceiling above you,
cracked like old skin.
The light is a bulb,
flickering because the wiring is tired.
No guardian.
No silence with meaning.
Just the hum of the fridge,
the creak of the bed when you shift.
Your name is not written anywhere
except on forms you hate filling.
Your fate is the next breath,
and the one after,
until there isn’t.
You are meat.
You are electricity.
You are the brief, bright accident
between two darknesses.
That is the truth.
No sky.
No wings.
Just this.
The Sunday Circle