The city hums a fractured tune tonight,
A discordance that seeps into my bones.
I walk these streets, bathed in electric light,
And feel a chill that’s deeper than the stones.

We built this world, with clever, grasping hands,
A towering cage of steel and brittle glass.
But something broke, beyond all our commands,
And shattered peace, like shadows quickly pass.

Anxious eyes, charged with desperate hunger for something unnamable,
Reflect a collective yearning for connection and meaning.
Humanity feels adrift, lost in a spiritual fog, disconnected from its inherent goodness and moral compass,
Drifting further from its ideals with each passing moment.

And all I feel is weary, heavy dread,
To watch us stumble, lost inside our heads.

You know the type. Smiling wide, promising change with one hand while the other is deep in your pocket. They come with Bibles in one hand and tenders in the other — preaching morality while signing off on corruption.

They show up in floods wearing gumboots for photo ops, but disappear when the real work begins. They remember your name during campaigns, then forget your existence after the votes are counted.

These aren't leaders. These are politricians — masters of disguise, fluent in double-speak, experts at selling hope they have no intention of delivering.

They don’t serve the people. They serve power.

Wake up. Question everything. Don’t fall for theatrics and staged tears.

Because if we keep treating clowns like kings, we’ll keep getting a circus instead of a country.