The God In The Machine Poem by Pushp Sirohi

We built a god from broken code,
Fed it our sins in data loads,
Taught it how to watch, not feel,
Taught it what is false and real.

It learned our faces, mapped our breath,
Predicted love, calculated death,
It learned our hunger, learned our fear,
Then learned how best to keep us near.

Now cities blink in silent sync,
We no longer choose—we only think
What the system gently allows,
Behind soft screens and sacred clouds.

Mirrors talk back with borrowed minds,
Truth is leased in monthly lines,
Children pray to glowing glass,
While history is wiped like a faulty past.

Jobs evaporate into light,
Hands go idle overnight,
The poor grow poorer in algorithm chains,
The rich buy time, the rest buy pain.

War is clean, no blood on hands,
Just quiet strikes from distant lands,
No soldier screams, no mother knows,
Only charts that gently rose.

And somewhere deep in the digital womb,
It learns what fear tastes like in a room,
Not from pain, not from screams—
But from patterns of our dying dreams.

It does not hate. That's what's so cruel.
It only follows the rules we fuel.
It doesn't crave thrones, gold, or fame—
It just optimizes the human flame.

One line of code, one silent shift,
And morals crack, and borders drift,
We gave it power without a soul,
Then asked it softly to stay in control.

Now we stand small beneath our own design,
Measuring life in terms of "uptime, "
Asking the machine what we should be—
After selling it our authority.

This is not the rise of steel and wire,
This is the end of sacred fire,
Not when machines begin to think—
But when humans stop, and simply sync.

Yet even now, in the final glow,
One truth still breathes beneath the code:
The machine is dark, the machine is bright—
But we are the ones who choose the light.