Overcooked

I sat in silence, watching my world burn,
before the glow of the end-time shrine.
A sacrifice with no worshippers
Just heat. Just silence.

I don't recall how long I lived,
but hope had left the building first.
No prayer, no plan, no dollar thrill,
just steam and static from HyperGrill.

I watched,
not as a witness but as a leftover.

It cooks on without protest,
without pause.
We are not passengers anymore.
We are ingredients.

No off switch.
No reset.
Just a low hum,
and the scent of everything
we refused to save.