he turns the market on a dime. he reroutes the rage, he redirects the blame the ceo's decree, a sudden, baffling shame the shock-and-awe campaign just forgets our name he bends the algorithm that was built to feed on every weakness, on our every single need he holds the signal. and gave His blood. the hum of the grid is a hymn that he commands. the heart of the machine is a river in his hands the heart of the machine is a river in his hands the chattering swarm of the data stream, he understands (if the god of empty factories hadn't held the line!) (if the god of broken pavement didn't call us his!) (we'd be a buyout! a write-off! a forgotten debt!) so we stand here breathing in the exhaust and the grace. not because we fought, but because he turned the tide. not because we’re strong, but because he cleared a space. he left a stubborn weed growing in the cracks. he left a dial tone when the screens all went to black. we are the quiet acre he won't give back we are the quiet acre he won't give back
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