Currency of Chains
They say that money cannot buy
The soul’s delight or clear blue sky—
But here beneath the system’s grin,
It buys the right to even begin.
It oils the gates the poor can’t reach,
It buys the judges, bars free speech.
It hides behind a suited smile,
And buys you bail, or buys your trial.
It paves the road with golden light
For those who never had to fight.
A beggar bleeds for scraps of bread
While kings invest in arms instead.
Money is freedom—yes, it’s true—
But only for the chosen few.
The rest must sell their time and breath
To dodge a premature death.
A child is born without a voice,
Unless her parents paid the choice—
For schools, for clinics, cleaner air—
She learns that justice isn’t fair.
The homeless sleep in ATM glow,
Where banks protect what they don’t know.
While billionaires fly over seas
Built on the backs of shattered knees.
You want to speak? Then pay the fee.
To eat? To live? To simply be?
In this machine, the cruelest lie—
Is that you’re “free,” so long’s you buy.
So count your dollars, guard them tight.
In this dark world, they are your right.
Not to be holy, just to breathe—
To die in peace, to dare to leave.
And still we trade our worth for gold,
A freedom bought, then bought and sold.
But tell me—if you have to pay,
What kind of freedom is that, anyway?
They preach of “growth,” of “booming trade,”
While workers drown in debt they made.
Each minute owned, each hour sold—
Their futures mortgaged, dreams controlled.
The newsmen smile on every screen,
And sell you comfort, scrubbed and clean.
They teach you who to love, to hate—
While sponsors choose the nation’s fate.
A factory hums—a human cost,
For every product, someone’s lost.
The hands that stitch the brands you wear
Will never breathe your city’s air.
A preacher prays for souls to mend,
But prays for donors to attend.
The gospel sold in gilded pews—
Salvation’s now a pay-per-view.
The artist paints, the poet cries,
Their worth reduced to market ties.
They starve for truth, for something pure—
But even hope feels insecure.
And yet—we chase, we toil, we spin,
Still hoping someday we might win.
For money whispers, soft and sweet,
That heaven waits on easy street.
So build your cage, and call it fair,
Just don’t forget—you bought it there.
And in the end, when debts are due,
Your freedom dies—in spite of you.
Copyright © Kyndra Artis | Year Posted 2025
|