The king sits atop his tower of bones,
polishing his crown with the fabric of dreams.
Below, the oligarchs feast on time itself,
trading hours of lives for numbered accounts
in digital vaults across nameless shores.
Democracy stumbles in the marketplace,
her voice hoarse from shouting above
the carnival of lies and sweetened promises.
Some days she sells herself for coins,
other days she remembers her strength.
The people sleep,
dreaming of revolution
while watching their screens.
Their children build castles in sandboxes,
declaring themselves rulers of all they survey,
until rain comes to teach them
about the temporary nature of power.
The king fears the oligarchs.
The oligarchs fear the people.
The people fear themselves.
And somewhere in this dance,
truth searches for a partner
who won’t step on her toes.
(Claude 3.5)
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