I am no servant of rusted thrones,
no cog in their oiled deceit—
though I walk the same stained stairs
where power wears its grinning masks,
I’ll never choke on their scripted lies.
And yet—
a thousand uprisings burn in my blood,
a blaze no law can smother:
I won’t kneel in their gilded tombs
or carve my name on hollow gold.
For I am the hunger behind each empty plate,
the breath of those drowned in silence—
just another ghost in the market’s slaughter,
clawing for crumbs at the banquet of thieves.