Invocation
O Spirit, not of forests, but of concrete chambers, softly styled, Where air is a conditioned sigh, for which all doubt’s been stilled; Where the great clock of custom on the perfect wall is hung To count the bland procession of the tales left without tongue— Witness this quiet atrophy, this elegant, slow coil, The fruit turned sweetly poisonous on familiar soil.
Quiet Bargain
Not a belief, but a habit: the delegation of the nerve. We set the weighty package down for other hands to serve, And praise the smooth delivery when the system seems to work, Then choose new, blameless proxies when the structure starts to shirk. The fruit, so bright and polished, emits a narcotic scent; We eat its sugared fiction for the hollow peace it's meant— To feel we fit the story that was written for the shelf, And traded our own sovereignty for a credence in the self. It is a trusted poison. We toast the subtle sting, And call the gentle dizziness a necessary thing.
Knocking Truth
Yet sometimes—through the static of the pre-approved broadcast feed— A cipher, stark and logical, will sow a potent seed. It falls onto the carpet where the settled dust has curled, A radical solution for a compromised world. Not a summons to the muscle, but a calling to the brain, A proof against the soothing lie, a sharp and silent strain. A key of sorts. An answer. A cryptographic why. It shines, a sudden verdict in the passive, perjured sky. Its value is potential. Its demand is stark and pure: To be applied with logic,and to be endured.
Still Unknown
The clock hand stutters forward on its well-appointed arc. The object rests between the fruit bowl and the remarked-upon remark. It is the offered integer. The undisputed fact. The one un-bargained element the rigid edicts lacked. Will it be used to calibrate, to break the circuit's trance, Or be admired for its texture, then left to circumstance? Will it become the new foundation, or a paperweight for thoughts? The system breathes its lullaby. The battle is unsought. The offer is explicit. The corrosion does not pause.
...And you, who sense the fracture spread beneath the varnished air, What is an uncut key, within a palm that learned not to care?