Confetti made of Woe

Once upon a time, humanity opened Pandora’s Box,
and out flew every trouble, pest, and paradox.
Millennia later with a curious, confident grin
power pries open new files just to watch the panic begin.

They call it “transparency,” though no one asked for the show
a circus of secrets tossed to the crowd like confetti made of woe.
Power, ever theatrical, keeps pulling new tricks from its sleeve,
opening records it sealed itself, then pretending to grieve.

And really, who’s fooled? History has run this act before
palaces with “young, favored attendants” lined neatly by the door.
Empires toppled and ballots marched to claim thrones
but power is still sipping tea while buttering scones.

Thumbs scroll on, intrigued, turning truth as content to share,
while power shrugs backstage adjusting its halo with care.
Humanity copulates, repeats but never evolves
like oil in water floating on top, refusing to dissolve.

Pandora watches over, tired of every rising trope,
wishing she had shut the lid with justice instead of hope.