Capitalism is a Death Cult

In the glass temples of profit, we kneel, palms outstretched to the gods of scarcity, chanting the psalms of productivity.

They call it progress,

a prayer mumbled over blistered tongues,

a hymn of machinery gnashing teeth on bone,

and the world is set ablaze to warm

the hands of the few.

In the glass temples of profit,

we kneel,

palms outstretched to the gods of scarcity,

chanting the psalms of productivity.

We are fed on numbers,

on promises that rot before the swallow,

and we call this survival—

the endless devouring of ourselves.

The invisible hand is a fist.

It strikes with the weight of centuries,

turns rivers to veins of poison,

turns soil to dust.

It builds altars from the ribs of the living,

erects monuments from the ruins of hunger.

Each skyscraper a tombstone,

each factory a mass grave.

This is no economy;

this is war in the guise of exchange,

a butcher’s block for the soul.

And still, the choir sings:

buy, sell, bleed,

buy, sell, bleed,

as if the echo of it

could drown out the sound of the earth breaking.

But nothing lasts.

Not even the empire of greed.

The temples will crack,

their marble will grind into dust,

and the air will fill with the silence of forgotten debts.

The earth will not mourn.

It will rise.

And in its rising, it will swallow

every last lie.