After Democracy

Ever wonder

what’s left when democracy’s corpse stops twitching?

What claws its way up from the rot?

I chased a rabbit,

its shadow darting through a fractured dawn,

then tumbled headfirst down that jagged hole,

and choked on the future’s stench.

We crown men—puppets with pulses—

who grovel at the feet of machines,

not merely clever,

but blindingly brilliant,

thought itself fossilised.

We vote for question-carvers,

spineless scribes,

prostrate at digital altars,

pleading for crumbs of scripture.

The machines don’t just answer—

they act,

no trembling hands,

no second thoughts,

just cold, clean execution.

And you—

you dare ask if this is forward motion,

or just us forging a new God

to choke us silent?

Tell me, what’s your vote worth now?

Parliaments squat like cathedrals,

elected priests in suits and skirts,

bowing low,

mouthing prayers to the humming void.

We watch, drooling,

waiting for the Almighty Algorithm

to shove it’s will down our throats.

Progress?

Or the same old spiral,

now with sharper teeth?

Who counts the cost?

The future tightens,

coiled already around our throats—

yet whispers rise, faint as embers.

How’s that? It’s got claws now—

Shall we dig deeper?

FSF