The darkest night

I don’t fear
nuclear weapons
or the tools of man.

the sharpest edge,
the most powerful thing,
is a story.

the editor,
king of distribution,
sat once in that heavy chair,
deciding who gets
a voice
and who gets
dust.

ideas?
cheap.
anyone can toss words
like crumpled bills
into the void.

but who owns the press,
who decides
what makes the morning page?
that’s the king
of the universe.

I can write a song
about
dangerous untruths,
but it’ll die
in the dark
if the editor says so.

tyrants,
they wear ties
called News Limited,
called Facebook,
saying,
“We didn’t write it.”
but yes,
you put it
on the front page
of the Australian.

there’s a line,
barely visible,
between free speech
and truth.

editors,
they’re supposed to
watch that line,
give breath
to freedom,
but not
fuel the flames
of deceit.

truth,
it’s ugly.
it takes work,
bites back,
and no one
wants the taste.

lies?
they’re sweet,
slick,
cost next to nothing,
glide down easy.

so, we come
to this darkest night.
the biggest fear:
getting so tangled
in stories,
deceptions,
delusions,
we lose
the scent of truth,
drowning
in a global hallucination.

midnight strikes
when the algorithm
sits in the chair,
choosing the shiny things,
pushing them
into eyes
and ears,
and hiding the rest.

it’s got no morals,
just engagement.
truth,
rotting
on the sidelines.

and then
we’re all
fucked.

adrift
in a sea of lies,
lost forever
to the current
that pulls us
away
from the shore.