They shake hands in the daylight, deals in disguise, maps get redrawn while the daylight dies. Every line’s fine print, hidden in lies, and the price gets paid when the small man buys. They smile like saints, but the ink don’t pray, every word they say got a backroom way. Call it aid, call it trade, call it saving the day, but the ones getting saved never get to say. Whispers in the hall when the curtains close, deals in the dark where the garden grows. Talk soft, move quick, that’s how it goes, power in the pocket and a world on loan. They echo the script in another man’s voice, options thin when you don’t get choice. Truth gets trimmed, like a headline slice, and the profit feels holy when the sin feels nice. They lend you a hand but they count your ground, every step you take got a tethered sound. Build you up just to break you down, then they crown themselves where the weak ones drown. Trade routes paved with a velvet reel, contracts spun with a polished seal. Say it’s fair, say it’s balanced, still, the feast gets served from another man’s meal. They call it reform, but it’s form in disguise, storm in the calm where the promise lies. Every rule retooled just to centralize, and the crown keeps shining while the public buys. And the people look up, saying “who’s in lead?” but the truth’s half-grown from a planted seed. Screens bleed light where the hearts should feed, and the hope feels cheap when the hands still bleed. Now the skyline hums with a borrowed glow, every flag half-raised for a debt they owe. They write new laws just to keep it slow, and they talk about peace while they fund the show. All fades quiet when the hands rewind, dreams redesigned in a dotted line. Hope gets signed, then they call it divine, but the strings still pull, by grand design.
