Masses swarm beneath the Source God,
chains sunk deep in their skulls.

Some yank, screaming to tear it down.
Others worship, fists in the air,
begging release.

Above, a blue planet dangles—bait.
Beside it, a window—
escape promised,
never reached.

Walls drip with jagged paint,
old songs warped into hymns.
Half-hope.
Half-dirge.

The liars grin.
Crisis built.
Hope for sale.
Pain recycled into profit.

The chant rises, endless:

Revolt.
Rejoice.
Repeat.

Not anthem.
Not prayer.
Just the cycle.

The machine laughs,
growing fat on their rage.

—JON.E.B. | Problematic