“Profit of Dust"
*A dramatic poem on power, exploitation, and divine justice*
**[Voice soft, bitter at first—then rising with gravity]**
They were born—not held,
Not sung to sleep by a mother’s breath,
But summoned in silence,
Arrayed under glass,
Named not in love,
But in ledger.
**[Voice sharper now, with mournful urgency]**
Hands untouched by grace,
Hearts unsheltered from purpose—
Children molded for markets,
Measured by worth,
Not wonder.
They are not mistakes.
They are mirrors—
Reflecting what we chose not to feel.
**[Pause. Breath. Lower tone.]**
This is not medicine.
This is not miracle.
This is man’s ambition,
Grinning behind a lab coat.
**[Building intensity]**
What began in light now swells in shadow.
What was called “creation”
Has become collection—
Of limbs, of labor,
Of silence.
**[Powerful beat]**
Like Nineveh,
We stood tall on towers of trade
And forgot that Heaven listens.
We mocked the womb,
Mocked mercy,
Mocked the memory of motherhood—
And called it progress.
**[Soft, almost broken:]**
But the heavens do not forget.
They have counted the jars.
They have heard the breathless cries.
They have not been silenced
By silicon prayers
Or profit margins.
**[Rising—urgent now]**
The blood of the innocent
Is not silent!
It thunders from the soil
Like Abel’s echo
And fills the books of judgment
With names no man remembers
But God does.
**[Final lines—firm and slow]**
There will come a fire
That no science shall tame.
There will come a reckoning
Where the children will stand,
Not as slaves,
But as witnesses.
And the Lord shall ask:
*"What did you make…
when you called yourself creator?"*
Profit from Dust
A poem of hope and holy transformation
They said it was over—just ashes and stone, A field full of silence, a garden ungrown. But God knelt low in the shadowed crust, And whispered, “Watch… I profit from dust.”
Where others saw failure, He planted His seed, In dirt stained with sorrow, in moments of need. He shaped new life from broken ground, Where only dry bones once were found.
The world passed by with mocking frowns, But Heaven builds without their crowns. A breath, a spark, a Spirit thrust— Creation sings: He profits from dust.
Not gold, not fame, not flawless pride, But mercy poured from wounds once wide. So when you fall or feel unused, Remember: dust is what God will choose.
Susan Barker Nikitenko June 21, 2025© MPMBCopNatMRochMPbKbAbBB hgf
