Google
a warehouse with locked doors,
a library where every book
bears a barcode.

They sell what they steal.
You are the product,
and the payment is you.

Then came Facebook,
the serpent with a smile.
It does not hunt
it lets you slither
into its jaws.

You open your veins willingly,
perceiving the whisper of an algorithm
as a genuine call from a friend.

Musk, Thiel, the new high priests,
clothed with garments of progress,
feeding us dreams
made of ones and zeroes.

We drink them down,
starving for connection
in a world where touch
has been replaced by pixels.

Our sin? Erasure.
The people beside us
fade into ghosts.
We label them,
judge them,
bury them beneath
the weight of our scrolling.

The oligarchs have forged
a kingdom of glass and gold,
and we kneel
before their altars.

Behold the Oval Office
its god is not hidden.
It gleams,
hard and yellow,
worshipped without shame.

Turn away from the cross
if you must.
Embrace the calf,
its hollow shine.
But remember:

Every gilded empire
digs its own grave.