In shadows of commerce, where greed’s altar stands,
I cast down the idols with my own trembling hands.
A culture, once sacred, now sullied and sold,
Where the vultures of consumerism grow ever so bold.
They circle above us, they pick at our minds,
In a wasteland of want, it’s our souls that they find.
They command us to leap, and we ask them “how high?”
But I won’t be a puppet, I won’t live that lie.
No, I won’t play the game of the one-two charade,
Where the illusion of choice is so crudely displayed.
I’ll rise against the echoes of a voice that’s not ours,
Against the rigged system that devours and devours.
For they trade not in currency, but in control and in fear,
And laugh as they watch the deficit soar year by year.
They claim to represent, but it’s money they heed,
A ravenous hunger, an insatiable greed.
Sweet honey they offer, to keep the masses appeased,
But I see through the guise of the shepherds and sheep.
And I fear the day coming, it looms in my view,
When my thoughts will be packaged and sold back to you.
For freedom’s a concept they’ve bartered and sold,
A hollowed-out word in the age of the bold.
The voices of Huxley, of Orwell’s grim tale,
Of Guevara’s rebellion, of the Lama’s trail.
They’ve been commodified, stripped of their truth,
Now mere products in the market of unending youth.
But I stand here defiant, I won’t let them win,
I’ll fight for the essence of what lies within.
For culture’s a flame that should burn bright and clear,
Not smothered by the hands of the marketeers.
I’ll raise my voice louder, I’ll fight for what’s right,
In the battle for the soul, in the depths of the night.
R. M Anderson 2023
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