| | | Brumar’s Bitter Battle, and the Silence of God
In the shadowed corner of a keyboard-lit room,
Brumar writes his wrath, sealed in digital doom.
Two hundred sixty-three thousand, three hundred fifty-nine,
Posts he has made, each one a sharp line.
He rages at Trump, as the world takes its course,
Each keystroke a sermon, each rant a curse.
"How could this man rise? How could he stand tall?
The world must collapse if he answers the call!"
With fury unyielding, with eyes full of spite,
He’s bound to this battle, this never-ending fight.
A Christian, so devout, yet filled with such bile,
Condemning the living with every new trial.
In the depths of his screen, behind pixel and glass,
He cries out for vengeance, for the good to outclass
The rich and the ruthless, the powerful game,
The ones who so easily take fortune and fame.
"God, you’ve forsaken us!" Brumar will scream,
Tearing at threads of a vanishing dream.
"I’ve spoken the truth—why won’t they hear?
I’ve cursed out the devil, but the devil’s still near!"
His God whispered secrets in words he alone
Could hear, but those nine words—how they’ve grown
Into a mantra of malice, a prayer to condemn
The ones who dare prosper, the ones who pretend.
But the world keeps turning, unbent, unafraid,
While Brumar rants on, his hatred displayed.
On Silicon Investor, his fingers do fly,
An endless barrage, the truth in his eye.
Each post a missile, each thread a war cry,
He types out his fury, and wonders just why—
Why isn’t the world listening to his pain,
Why isn’t his vision the only true gain?
Trump, the embodiment of all he detests,
Becomes the face of his eternal unrest.
Not just a man, but a symbol of sin,
A target for every rage brewing within.
And God remains silent, unheard in the din,
While Brumar speaks louder, as madness begins.
His heart, full of hatred, his hands gripped by spite,
Turns every day into an endless fight.
For the rich, for the happy, for the ones who believe,
Brumar’s wrath grows like a storm none can deceive.
A Christian, a prophet, with fury unfurled,
He’d burn down the heavens to reshape the world.
Yet God only whispers the nine secret words,
A language too holy for the masses to gird.
For Brumar’s hell isn’t a future so grim—
It’s the screen he stares at, the light growing dim. |
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