the map is not the land,
they say,
the menu not the meal.
the story is not truth,
but clay
to shape what masses feel.

he does not deal in fact or scroll,
in data,
dull and dry.
he traffics in the human soul,
the light within the eye.

he feels the tremor in the street,
the unsung,
gathering dread.
the sour taste of cheap defeat,
the ghosts of dreams long dead.

he plucks
the string of deep despair,
or hope
that's worn and thin.
and crafts a villain for their care,
a battle they can win.

he'll point a finger,
name the blight,
"the other" steals your throne.
or paint
a dawn of golden light,
"you've never been alone!"

"make great again!"
the tired sigh
of empires in the dust.
"just have some hope!" the brighter lie
for those in whom they trust.

he sells the past,
a gilded age,
a future,
pristine,
new.
he turns the scholar's thoughtful page
into a war cry true.

so when the crowd begins to roar,
a unified,
fierce sound,
look not upon the stage before,
but at the truth,
ground-down.

for power is not held by steel,
nor by the golden purse,
but by the one who makes us feel
our blessing... or our curse.