"The Horror" - Bahamas AI Art
ⒸA. Derek Catalano
Who Pushed the Button
We built the bombs to keep the peace—
as if extinction was a shield,
as if the threat of total death
could keep the battlefield sealed.
Steel death we worshipped underground,
wired for silence, not for sound,
stacked neatly in their silver tombs—
our faith misplaced in lethal rooms.
We told ourselves it kept us safe,
this balance born of mutual fear.
A thousand warheads humming deep
in silos far and near.
Each one a god, asleep but armed,
a curse disguised as charm,
a guardian that held its breath
to keep us balanced close to death.
But how could peace be built on edge,
on trembling hands at history’s ledge?
We had the codes. We drew the lines.
We played with fire. We mined the mines.
Bombs for the East, bombs for the West,
bombs for the ones who claimed they’d bless
the Earth with order, law, and pride—
a genocide all justified.
We had bombs, counter-bombs
and counter-counter-bombs,
like children stacking matches
in a forest full of dry palms.
For what? Protection from each other?
Insurance if we killed a brother?
Was that the plan?
If one man falls, then all must die?
We set the world on fire
for the comfort of a lie.
Who pushed the button?
Which trembling hand,
which frightened eye,
saw warplanes rise on radar screens
and couldn’t risk the "why"?
Was it a drill misread?
A satellite’s glare?
A ghost blip in cold software?
Was it vengeance masked as policy?
Was it pride too blind to see?
Was it a man who thought himself a king,
with fingers twitching at the ring
of ultimate control and fate—
who struck before it was too late
and made it truly, finally late?
Perhaps arrogance built on hate.
Or was it no man’s fault at all?
Did systems built to never fall
just fail—as all things human must?
Metal rusts. Wires fray.
And even warnings drift away.
We watched the sky flash into fire.
No time for screams. No time for choirs.
The instant death—the crushing light—
and then the slow kill crept through night.
The fallout whispered into lungs,
into the water, into tongues,
into the soil, into the bone—
until the Earth was dust and stone.
And now, the silence. Thick and deep.
The world has gone to sleep,
but not a gentle one. No dreams.
Only echoes, ash, and toxic streams.
We had the chance.
We could have turned.
We could have listened.
But we burned.
We let the war machine advance,
we gave it teeth, we gave it dance.
We let it grow. We called it strength.
It had our minds. It had our length.
It had our laws. It had our trust.
And now we’re nothing more than dust.
How do you understand a choice
to end all hearts, to mute all voice?
Was it madness? Was it fate?
Or did we simply learn too late
that love is louder than command,
and peace is something made by hand—
not forged in threats or metal gleam,
not locked inside a warlord’s dream?
Who pushed the button?
We all did.
With every silence, every nod,
every faith in killing as a god.
We built it, fed it, let it grow—
until the only truth we know
is: all is gone.
All gone.
But maybe far beyond this place,
some other world,
some other race
will find the wreckage of our fall
and learn at last how we lost all:
That no one wins who lights that spark.
That death leaves nothing but the dark.
And maybe then, with wiser eyes,
they’ll build no bombs beneath their skies.
They’ll choose not power, not control—
but kindness written into soul.
And live not just to dominate,
but simply learn to tolerate.
To love. To grow. To never burn.
To see the line—and never turn.
Conclusion:
We had the chance to turn away.
We didn’t.
And now there’s no one left to say:
"Let’s try again."
ⒸA. Derek Catalano/ChatGPT
