a local god built
not of stone,
but of pure thought
and legal parchment.
its pillars are math,
cold logic,
sharp psychology;
the new trinity.
its scripture is code,
a silent,
humming command
that feeds on our lives.
its altar is exchange,
the sacred flow of capital
that sanctifies all.

we are wrapped in foam;
endless scrolls of distraction
that drown out the buzz.
a curated truth,
a feed of chosen outrage
that feels like a choice.
the pain is elsewhere,
externalized to some dark fund
we are told is growth.
the system is just
a mirror of the world,
they say.
it has no master.

the cost is a ghost,
a debt on a future sheet
we cannot yet see.
the war is for shares,
fought by algorithms
on digital shores.
the spirit takes form
in the brand,
the patent,
the law;
the victor's new truth.
justice is inspired
by the bottom line's quiet hum,
blessed by the dividend.

the hand that built things
now clicks a button,
orders
what it used to make.
the same sun now sets
on the empty factory floor
and the new glass tower.
the dialectic chews,
it does not care for the heart
it metabolizes.
we are the offering,
the mass required for its feast.
we call it progress.
the old god is gone.
the new one asks not for faith,
but for consumption.
the monster is fed
by the war of with-or-against.
it grows in the strife.
the only justice
is the system's constant growth.
all else is fuel.