“The Machine in Brussels”
—A Dark Verse of Control and Decay
They built a throne on shifting sand,
With waxen laws and sleight of hand.
A beast with flags and polished teeth,
That feeds on dreams and rot beneath.
Twelve stars above, a crown of lies,
They smile while severing ancient ties.
The sovereign voice, a muted ghost,
Replaced by men who wine and toast.
They do not bleed, they do not feel,
They crush with pens, and sign the seal.
A thousand rules, a million chains,
To bind the soul, to strip the veins.
A single farm, a faceless plan,
No room for soil, nor flesh, nor man.
Just paperwork, and fines, and speech —
And truth forever out of reach.
The tongue is taxed, the thoughts observed,
The edges of the map are curved.
The fish are counted, dreams controlled,
And liberty is bought and sold.
They do not lead, they do not serve,
They circle like a flock of birds —
All pecking at what once was whole,
Until there’s nothing left but scroll.
The lands grow quiet, culture thins,
The old ways buried in their bins.
They speak of peace with velvet voice,
While robbing nations of their choice.
This is the pact, the poisoned trade,
The flag beneath which truth is flayed.
And if you dare to step aside —
Expect the storm, the smear, the slide.
So burn the blue and gold away,
And raise the banners of dismay.
For freedom, though a fragile spark,
Still glows within the growing dark.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 