Architects of a past future.

Once upon a twilight dream,
Pauline on her mountain, Trump in his crumbling park,
Selling futures spun from dust,
Memories woven into golden lies.

"Oh, Pauline!" Trump bellows,
His mane catching the wind of a machine,
"The future, my dear—let it be the past,
When I was ten, when all obeyed,
An age of obedient nostalgia!"

Pauline nods,
Eyes fixed on ghosts of kangaroos and BBQs,
"Yes, Donald, back before thought,
Before questions tangled the air,
When everything made sense."

The crowds cheered,
Not for futures or cities in the sky,
But for the comfort of knowing
Their choices would be made for them.

A philosopher, forgotten in the crowd,
Whispers to the wind,
"But what if the future
Is not the past reborn,
What if it’s more?"

Hanson squints at the words,
"New paths? The old ones are enough,
Laid out, smooth like a road map."

Trump grins, his eyes hungry,
"A future beyond nostalgia?
They don’t want that—they want
To feel good about yesterday.
Believe me, no one sells the past
Like I do."

The philosopher fades,
His truth swallowed by cheers.
Hanson and Trump, architects of time,
Raise their fists to the crowd,
And claim the future, wrapped
In the blanket of a memory that never was.

Yet somewhere, beneath the noise,
A whisper lingers,
"What if the future could be more
Than a polished lie,
More than the past,
Resurrected for a world afraid to dream?"

But the whisper is lost,
As they sell tomorrow—
A past that never really was.