Heavenly Nap
When God and his angels slept
All of the worlds stood still
Nothing worsened in this Time
Even if someone was ill.
A blanket of simple purity
Surrounded one and all.
Weather seemed to not matter
From the sky nothing will fall.
A simple spot in serenity
From within their humble dream
Would change the world eternally
Or so it would seem.
Nightmares
When God and his angels slept
They dreamed of another life
Saddled by the laws of physics
And flaws of the inept
When God and his angels dreamt
They followed painful routines
Living human journeys
Of external lives unkempt
When God and his angels awoke
They blotted the sweat from their faces
And were thankful for the reality
Of which they rarely spoke
“When god and his angels sleep...”
We'll take our turn...
(the clock turns, and turns)
We turn it over, and
say...
Our turn'll come!
yet,
Surely,
Turning over...
O vigils we'll keep
Then...
when we take our turns!
Pestilence, it creeps
The soils scorched, and razed
The wars dig in, septic...
and the hungers kill.
Turning over,
Then,
We say...
Our turn'll come...!
(the clock turns, and turns)
We'll take our turn...
Surely,
then
when...?
"When god and his angels are sleeping in..."
2025 FEB 01
CORVUS
Mr. O’Connell paced back, and forth next to the delivery room. His wife had gone into early labor, and he was taken aback by the news. He did not even know that she was expecting a baby. His mother had informed him that his wife had gone to work on securing a business deal with the Japanese— and he knew that the voyage there would take a while. But then one of his guards had informed him that his wife had been admitted into the labor ward. That had shaken his very inner heart’s core- or in fact where his heart was supposed to be. After what seemed to be eons he heard the screams of a little babe. He stormed into the delivery room, and nearly pounced into his wife’s OB/GYN Doctor. She rolled her eyes, and muttered to herself: Here we go, this fella has no control. The Doctor was familiar with this man- his father had been here to help a young woman not too long ago with an issue. She had claimed that she was carrying his son’s child. Mr. O’Connell Sr. made sure that the young woman in question would never see the light of day ever again. The Doctor had tried to contact her, but her line did not patch through. So, the Doctor had come to the conclusion either the young Miss in question had been disposed of, or she had been sent to a far away island where she would not be a problem any more. Mr. O’Connell Jr. almost was at a loss for words. He gazed upon the newborn child- the first born. It’s hands were teeny tiny. Mr. O’Connell Jr. was afraid to good it. The newborn just cried, and cried. Mr. O’Connell did not seem pleased. He grabbed his wife’s bags, and soon there were right back at the O’Connell abode. The O’Connell abode was a mix between a Victorian style home with a touch of the most modern gizmos, and gadgets. From the top-notch security cameras with 24/7 surveillance, all the way down to an underground bunker in case of an emergency, or total world alien invasion. The moment his wife stepped into her own chambers, Mr. O’Connell Jr.’s hand moved across his wife’s cheeks. They burned and started to turn a mix between purple- and blue, with a touch of scarlet, too. She held onto her baby making sure that it felt, and knew that it was in safe hands. Mr. O’Connell stared with bulging eyes at his wife and then bellowed: You think you’re a clever lass…huh?! That child may have come from your womb, but it looks nothing like me..Who’s its real father? His wife felt the bitter sharp stings of pain in her heart. Why in the world had she decided to come back to the O’Connell’s, to be more precise….back to Mr. O’Connell Jr.’s side?
Slowly time passed, but the wounds in the newest mother’s heart did not fade away. She had taken great care of her kid. He was growing up to be a big, and strong lad. But deep down in the lad’s heart, he felt something begin to grow in his heart, mind, and soul. He felt it sink into him like an anchor going down into the depths of the Indian Ocean.
Sometime during the dead of night, in the summertime, a dark shadow had snuck into the O’Connell’s abode. It moved stealthily past the guards, and managed to sneak into Mr. O’Connell’s room. The man was snoring like a humpback whale. It was the loudest sound that echoed throughout the mansion. The dark shadow squinted its eyes, and growled. It protracted its paws, and slashed at Mr. O’Connell Jr.’s throat.
One of the guards had heard the sound of Mr. O’Connell sputtering out: Cccc….ooo….or…..vvv.
The guards called the police. When then finally arrived on the scene, they were in for quite a pickle of a case.
The Detective sighed, and then shook his head: When god, and his angels slept…something sinister took their place..showing not a single trace of grace for Mr. O’Connell.
#CORVUS. Monday 01.27.2026
https://youtu.be/AqSOTpBmYhQ?si=-Gd0aF7mxBIXH_AR
A World of Our Own Making
We killed our gods with mathematics. Not all at once—that would have been too kind. We drained them slowly, equation by equation, until their miracles withered into statistical anomalies.
I remember the day we proved prayer was just quantum interference. Professor Harris threw up in the lab sink while the equations sprawled across his whiteboard like murder confessions. The math was beautiful. The math was hideous. The math was true.
They didn't die, exactly. Death implies a finality we couldn't grant them. Instead, they sleep in tombs of myth and memory, their dreams leaking into our sewers and circuits. Sometimes the maintenance crews come up babbling about angels in the pipes. We give them pills and reassignment forms.
Today my daughter asked me why the sky screams at night. I told her it's just wind through the steel and glass. I didn't tell her it's the gods having nightmares.
The new paradise doesn't need miracles. We built it from scratch, each wonder carefully tested and proven true. Children learn to shape reality through reason, crafting beyond the promise of prayer. We are our own architects, building potential from the fundamental laws of existence.
But lately, the equations are showing anomalies.
Small things at first: rounding errors in reality's constants, undefined variables appearing in our models of consciousness. Last week, a quantum computer sprouted flowers from its cooling vents—actual, impossible flowers that smelled of ozone and forgiveness.
The gods are stirring, but we've learned something they never did: power isn't the same as wisdom.
I'm watching the monitors now as divine brainwaves spike through bedrock. My colleagues are arguing about containment protocols, about weapons and walls. They sound just like the gods in the old stories—always reaching for lightning when a conversation would do.
The really funny thing about building paradise? Turns out it has nothing to do with power. No quantum arrays or reality engines needed. Just people choosing to be kind when they could be cruel. Looking out for each other. Helping up instead of pushing down.
The ground trembles and storms clouds gather. Through the observation window, I watch my daughter share her lunch with the maintenance worker's kid. No divine intervention required—just a child choosing to be kind.
Maybe that's what the gods need to learn from us.
Six days.A to do list.
Stretched out on an eternal canopy,over the horizon,supported by,east,west,south,and north.
Words spoken in a whisper,hushed to a scream.Dont awaken the giant,let his breath come forth.
A tear from your eye,a drop of rain.A precipitated moment that lingers between within and without.
An angel confronts and appeases,a dream within a dream.Falling into consciousness captivity, Awakened by a mighty hand.A murmur inside a shout.
Spiritual paralysis.Dont stir the dead.Tossing and turning from words, that were spoke.
Flooded by watered down sermons in a lather of forseen sweat.Floating into a halo of a secreted mirror of smoke.
The Devil took a turn
Clocking on and the turnstile to the entrance to Earth the Devil was in for a busy night soul gathering.
What with all the murders infanticides regicide genocides rapes tortures random killings his ledger book was full.
All the seven deadly sins don't talk about them...off the charts.
Behind him hordes of demons jittered and screeched waiting for release from Hell.
'BE SILENT!'. The Devil yelled.
Finally the turnstile lifted and the Devil strode forth with imps chattering screaming behind him.
Eternity was hard work but for the Devil it was all in a days pay of soul taking.
Forgive Me Father...
Everyone gets tired, even the heavens and when God and his angels slept, humanity shed its sheep skin and barred its teeth at their throats. The drool, dripping onto the cloudy pillows next to their sweet faces, and falling straight through thousands of feet onto the grounds below causing tsunamis and devastating waves in its wake. They could not find it in themselves to commit such a horrid act upon angels in the house of God and knew not if it was their own doing or a sort of divine protection. They instead locked them away and took the power for themselves accepting prayers and gifts, careful to use the names of the angels and God himself to get what they want to benefit themselves.
But everyone gets tired eventually, and their God is not as forgiving as they tote him to be.