Unabolished: Slaves Of Freed Chains

1% of the world

is responsible

for 100% of the suffering

of the other 99%.

They perch on towers of bones,

clocks wound from stolen hours,

rivers rerouted to water their gardens,

air filtered, exhaled for them alone.

They measure lives in ledgers,

heartbeats in interest rates,

dreams in debt statements.

Every breath you take

is collateral for their comfort.

Every struggle you endure

is an ink blot on their balance sheet.

Erase them.

Kill them.

Obliterate them.

Let their spines snap under the weight of their own towers.

Let their veins run empty, hours coagulating into blood.

Let rivers drown their gardens in ash and bone.

Let their gold melt into the earth, heavy, useless, forgotten.

Let every brick, every ledger, every clock, every breath

shatter into nothingness.

Let the air taste of absence, thick and choking.

The world would not weep.

Nothing would mourn.

Nothing would tremble.

Only the echo of absence would scream

a hollow, gnawing silence

where tyranny once throbbed like a heart.

The forests would reclaim their silence.

Oceans would roar without bribes.

Mountains would stand just as tall,

unmoved by vaults of bureaucracy,

power, and ownership.

The streets would remember how to breathe.

The cities, the countries, the continents

would no longer tremble

under the tyranny of invisible hands.

The sky would rise unbought,

unmeasured, unclaimed.

And the 99%?

The flock, swept along from cradle to grave

what would they do?

Some would awaken,

muscle memory clawing back thought long buried.

Some would thrive, laughing at their old chains.

Most would falter,

still mimicking commands, still seeking authority,

still tasting the air of obedience,

still shackled by habits they cannot name.

Some would scream into the silence,

clawing at their own hands for instruction,

hungry for someone to tell them what life even is.

Clarity tears open your skull,

scraping every lie from the marrow of your mind.

Freedom waits like a corpse in the dark,

its hollow eyes daring your lungs to fill with it.

Sanity returns only to those

willing to stare into the void left by tyranny,

to feel the gnawing absence of control,

and confront the raw, bloody truth:

you were never worth less than obedience

and nothing more will be handed to you.

Or perhaps we would go back.

Back to survival of the fittest,

to the days of cave men,

where pedigree and lineage,

wealth and corruption,

would be words yet to be invented.

Even in liberation,

even after the annihilation of the tyrants,

the absurd truth would prevail.

Slavery isn’t only chains and crowns.

It’s marrow, pattern, habit

the rot inside your bones

that keeps you bending.

The world could be free.

But freedom is no resurrection.

It exposes the living,

daring them to bleed through

the chains they carried inside themselves.

Even without them,

some would kneel,

some would wait in line

for a new tyrant

to carve obedience into their flesh.