the first brick was a pixel,
bright,
a signal in the endless night.
not marble,
but a mental frame,
a thirst for a remembered name.
the edifice was built on air,
on a longing for a style of hair,
a posture,
from a history book,
a vacant,
hungry,
borrowed look.

we wrapped ourselves in the display,
and let
the real world melt away.
the feed became our sensory skin,
let the new emperors step in.
insulated by the glowing glass,
we,
we watched the hollow icons pass,
and
cheered the role they chose to play,
at the ending of the real day.

the truth is not a fact,
but a feel,
a manufactured,
raw ideal.
with fear and tears.
it’s been externalized,
outsourced,
sold,
a narrative and brand to hold.
it lives in the collective gasp,
behind the perfectly crafted mask.
a hyperreal,
a brilliant sheen,
the most real thing we’ve ever seen.
everybody wants to rule the world.
signed by tears for fears.

and
so the simulacrum stands,
wringing power from our idle hands.
a napoleonic style,
bereft,
of everything but what is left,
a pose.
a symbol.
an empty crown.
pulling the old reality down.
the contrast?
there’s nothing to compare.
only the emperor’s new clothes,
worn bare.