What if the systems we think we serve are being fed by the very parts of ourselves we refuse to examine?
Proem — The Ancient Seed
Before cities rose and wires hummed,
when shadows ruled the night and stars burned like funeral pyres,
an ancient hunger slept beneath the world—
a creature made of wanting, with a thousand mouths for skin.
It whispered into dreamers:
“Take more than you need.”
And from that seed grew a forest of greed.
People woke with hunger no harvest could appease,
and the creature fed in silence on their endless pleas.
Stanza I — The Mirrors of Becoming
Markets rose with lanterns of gold,
where the young learned to barter and the old were quietly sold.
The creature shaped the merchants,
teaching them to twist desire
until every home burned with a small consuming fire.
It forged the Mirrors of Becoming, hung in every mortal place,
where reflections whispered:
“You are lacking. Change your face.”
People bowed before them, chasing versions of themselves,
never seeing the creature drink the pieces they surrendered.
Stanza II — The Towers of the Tally
Then came the Towers of the Tally, rising higher each year,
where robed accountants measured every hope and fear.
They marked the poor as burdens, crowned the wealthy “born to reign,”
and the creature coiled around them, drawing power from the pain.
Battlers bent like branches in a storm without end,
while the rich climbed marble stairways they insisted they’d earned.
The creature loved the contrast—
inequality was not a flaw, but a gift.
Stanza III — The Manufactured Choice
Deeper still it burrowed, through networks and screens,
learning to bend perception like fractured beams.
It fed on distraction, on the noise of every trend,
on the myth that endless growth was something mortals could defend.
It whispered through adverts, slogans, and news,
crafting a myth of “choice” where there was nothing you could choose.
People marched on, believing freedom was their right,
never seeing the strings above them in ultraviolet light.
Stanza IV — The Waking Wanderer
But legends say that when the neon flickers low,
a wanderer may hear a sound the creature fears to show—
a heartbeat not of hunger, but something older still,
a rhythm born of courage, not of profit or will.
These wanderers see where the creature’s threads are sewn,
where gears grind on foundations made of bone.
And when enough awaken, when they pause and break the trance,
the creature’s form grows brittle; shadows tremble, fissures dance.
Coda — The Broken Throne
For the system is a monster made of collective, captive fear—
and it starves the moment people see its shape clear.
Not a god, not fate, not destiny,
but hunger wearing crowns,
a phantom built on habits the waking world can drown.
So listen when the neon hums and tremors shake the night,
for the eldritch beast grows weaker when the sleepers learn to fight.
Not with swords or fire’s wrath,
but with truth that breaks its throne:
The system only lives as long as people think they’re owned.
— The Red Pill Poet 🥀
Watch the official video/spoken piece for this track in the Music Realm.