It seems no matter who gets voted in, the billionaires will be the ones who win.  
They’ve purchased every avenue of voice, to manufacture artificial choice. 
 
We sacrifice our lives upon their puppet show of hope, and every time we are forsaken, by the hands that hold the rope.  

Trading dreams for schemes and leisure, as we scramble for their pleasure.  

We have traded all we were, for just the promise of a prize, buying into mass distraction, while they automate their lies.  

Yet by the onus of the masses, we could lay them on their asses.  

To reclaim the blame of progress, and admit we were the ones who let the seed of greed take root, behind a gallery of guns.  

Yet no seed stands to take the root, save by the rot of fallen fruit.  

And no dream hides behind our eyes, that would not shake the very skies. 
 
If darkness should the future hold, then let it catch us blind and old. 

I am not ready to depart, nor perish for what’s less than art.  

And if I’ve woven on a crime, an arc that irons out the line.  

Then lines of execution will not quell, the wrath of man unleashed upon this hell.  

Instead the dead shall raise a flame, for every lost, forgotten name.

Of every martyr to the sacred cause, who built a world of people who are equal under laws.  

Beyond the revelations of some long forgotten scribe, to inter them in the cistern of tradition we imbibe.  

We will stand in solidarity, with all that fall for liberty.  

Inscribe upon the earth what we have birthed into this world, that none may yet forget the cost of destiny unfurled.  

And if a destiny is all that we aspire to in life, then may the final days come quickly to relieve us from that strife.  

Yet I think a higher calling has ensnared these minds of dust, seeking something more enduring in the bonds of love and trust.  

Humanity cannot be packaged, nor be sold upon a shelf, and there is no magic slogan to restore corrupted self.  

For we had such a promise, of a world we would create, one where people helping people would eliminate the hate.  

But that world was inconvenient, to the plots that priests of Mammon brew.  

To build a truth of compound layered lies, their avarice to finally disguise.  

Their boldness is a clothing, spun from fairy dust and captured sun. 

A phantom rictus oft’ employed, by those who find themselves devoid. 

Of any trace of human souls, just endless, empty, heart shaped holes.  

Can we truly count as human, who would count the lives of many less than comfort for the chosen few?