The Architects
A Dark Poem About the WEF
They gather in shadows where mountains breathe frost,
In rooms full of mirrors where truth can get lost.
They speak without blinking, with ice in their veins,
Of futures rebuilt from our rubble and chains.
They wear smiles of silicon, eyes like machines,
Mapping our thoughts on invisible screens.
With whispers of “progress” and “equity” bright—
They tighten the grip with a smile and a light.
A voice from the stage says, “This is the way—
You’ll rent out your soul and be happy one day.”
The screens flash with slogans, sleek, sanitized lies,
While out in the streets, the real freedom dies.
They sold us a virus, then sold us the cure,
Then patented silence to help us endure.
They printed the money, erased all the debt—
But we pay in breath, in time, in regret.
A climate of crisis, perpetual war,
So they can unlock one more digital door.
Behind it: a ledger, a carbon-bound score,
That tells them how much you should eat, own, adore.
And the children are watching on VR-fed screens,
Learning to kneel to algorithmic dreams.
The past has been scrubbed, the present’s a lie,
And tomorrow is coded by suits in the sky.
So sleep if you must, and believe what they say—
But the Architects plan as we wither away.
The world is a board, and we are the pawns—
The Great Game continues long after we’re gone.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 