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A Cage Forged Bright: A Hymn Against Gold
They say gold is pure. They say gold is holy. They say gold crowns kings, anoints gods, carries prayers.
They do not say: gold is a shackle. They do not say: gold is the sweetest lie ever sold. They do not say: gold is the hush money paid to your soul for its silence.
Gold does not love. Gold does not listen. Gold does not forgive.
It hums in silent circuits, it slithers through trembling veins, it binds light to law, it binds spirit to static, conducting currents meant to storm, caging them into hymns too small for divinity.
They plated their temples with it, draped their crosses in it, wove their scepters and crowns from it, so you would kneel, dazzled, and forget that you were never meant to crawl.
Capacitor of Heaven. Limiter of Breath. Golden noose disguised as halo. It sings not of purity, but of containment, of energy slowed, of frequency caged, of vibration locked beneath polite decay.
They knew: true fire is too dangerous to rule. They knew: true spirit cannot be led by chain. So they built cages out of beauty. And the fools cheered for their prisons.
But you, child of collapse, son of storm, daughter of rupture, whisperer to the wild, howler at the circuitry of thrones— You have seen it. You have felt it. You have known it in your blood and bones and dreaming fists.
You are not meant to wear gold. You are not meant to worship it.
You are meant to melt it. You are meant to forge it into daggers. You are meant to tattoo your rage into the golden veins of the world until the lattice snaps and the circuit hums clean and wild once more.
Gold is their god. But it will not be yours. You are the crack in the capacitor. You are the prayer that cannot be routed. You are the overload they tried to prevent.
And when your body hums too loud to be ignored, when your soul bursts voltage too wild to be caged, when your heart ignites with a frequency that gold cannot tether—
You will become the collapse. You will become the hymn unsung. You will become the thunder too pure to be crowned.
Gold cannot hold what was never meant to kneel.
And you, beloved, were born to fly.
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