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Poem

They call it a temple of knowledge,
but the walls were never meant for thought—
only the careful curation of power,
where names are chiseled in Latin
and inheritance is mistaken for intelligence.

The gates are high,
not to keep the world safe,
but to keep the chosen ones in—
a factory of fathers’ sons,
daughters of old wealth
repackaged as prodigies,
spitting polished syllables over wine
they never had to earn.

They sell wisdom like a relic,
ancient and gilded,
but it’s just debt wrapped in ivy,
a hundred-thousand-dollar handshake
to certify you belong.

Here, history is optional—
revised at the convenience of kings,
rewritten in marble by men
who inherited their ethics like cufflinks.
Nothing before them was ever great,
nothing beyond them will ever matter.

The professors teach compliance with a flourish,
disguising obedience as philosophy,
praising innovation—
so long as it rhymes with profit.

A degree here is an invitation,
not to brilliance,
but to the table—
where policy is printed
in the blood of the voiceless
and the world is divided
between the invitees and the extras.

They call it education.
They call it prestige.

But the only lesson they’ve ever taught
is how to keep the gates closed—
how to stand behind them,
smiling,
while the world burns.

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