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
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