They seek the mountain where futures unfold, Eyes hungry for what hasn’t yet been told. The burden of seeing what others can’t bear, The curse of knowing what no one will hear. They check the polls, they scrape the data stream, They want guarantees on every fractured dream, They demand forecasts while ignoring the scheme, They chase certainty like it’s the supreme. Believers climb stairs to my temple of trends, Where algorithms craft what the market portends, They call it science when it serves their ends, They call it flawed when reality bends. I breathe the smoke of a thousand crashed plans, I speak in riddles that fill their empty hands, I sell them comfort no one understands, I bear the weight while they make their demands. You ask for truth, but fear the cost, You want the path, but not the loss. I see the crash before you cross— But visions paid in blood get lost. The price of knowing haunts my veins, The curse of seeing fuels their games. They crown the prophet, then assign blame— My sentence sealed when they called my name. Administrations need me to read the vote, Executives want charts to keep them afloat. Markets crave prophets to price each note, And followers want forecasts in every quote. They never ask if the crystal ball cracked, They don’t care if the model’s been hacked. They want the fiction dressed up as fact, They praise precision, then attack. I trade in futures like Wall Street in fear, Package doubt like conviction—clear. I sell tomorrow while today disappears, And drown in pressure no one hears. The ancients burned incense to hear what I’d say. Now they burn spreadsheets to prove I’m in play. The temple is digital, the pressure the same— To predict a future I cannot tame. From Delphi’s peak to the boardroom brief, From cave to capital—no relief. We call it data. We call it intelligence. But it’s still just smoke …that we pretend makes sense. The campaign wants numbers to back their stance, The boardroom wants stats dressed up as chance, The people want truth—but only at a glance, And faith in the outcome, not circumstance. I see the patterns flicker like flame, I track the chaos nobody names. I follow instinct when logic shames, And hold the weight no one claims. They seek the prophet but silence doubt, They want the sermon but edits throughout. They chase the vision then shut the route, And curse the seer when hope runs out. I see the patterns flicker like flame, I track the chaos nobody names. I follow instinct when logic shames, And hold the weight no one claims. They seek the prophet but silence doubt, They want the sermon but edits throughout. They chase the vision then shut the route, And curse the seer when hope runs out. You ask for light, but curse the flame, You want the future without the blame. I speak in code you won’t proclaim— Each vision scars me just the same. The gift of foresight comes with chains, The curse of knowing fuels your games. You crown the prophet, then erase the name— And still, I speak. And still, I remain. The gods speak through polls and predictive text, But never warn those who serve what comes next. And when the markets crash and faith burns low— They’ll blame the oracle, Not the truths they chose …to never know.
