The Lie of Choice
A man stands in line, hand to ballot, marked with pride,
Staring at faces that echo, but none who decide.The booth shines bright,
every name carefully displayed,
Yet the promises mirror each other in scripted cascade.The illusion of power,
inked and signed in passive blue,
Masked by the thunder of slogans that never break through.
A bottle glistens in a freezer packed with forty kinds of light,
Each label different, each taste the same bitter bite.The
shelves stretch wide—branding the lie as delight,
Yet the contract was signed before dawn replaced night.Behind every bottle,
behind every flavor,
Waits a hand pulling strings, a faceless engraver.One logo in neon,
another in faux gold,
But each is an emblem that’s already sold.
A worker clocks in, trading freedom for wage,
Shuffling papers inside a fluorescent cage.The day peels away,
and with it the dreams,
Traded for hours where nobody screams.Eight hours lost for a taste of control,
A contract that buries the mind and the soul.He smiles at the menu,
but none of it’s real—A bowl full of options, designed not to heal.
Menus and ballots, subscriptions
and screens,They promise escape in factory routines.Pick a career, pick a meal,
pick a side, pick a stream—But all of these choices float dead in the stream.Crowds merge in traffic, all lights set to green,Each
step preselected, each choice pre-seen.A maze of direction,
not a single escape—A carnival mirror where choices take shape.
Click “accept terms,” sign below the dotted line,
Freedom’s just a product, presented to
shine.Proudly parading with keys to a gate,
Not knowing the locks are adjusted by fate.Dreams on a shelf,
lined up for review,
But behind every option, the authors are few.
The day is a menu, the night is a chain,
Decorated with slogans, designed to remain.And when morning returns,
he drinks what he’s sold,
Marches the loop, wears rebellion in mold.Autonomy’s shadow, thin as a thread,
Dangling from billboards that scream in his head.
No revolution erupts, only the churnOf wheels
that promise they’ll help the world turn.The architects grin from the back of the room—Their hands in the pockets
of all who assume.They sell every option,
each leash and device,And offer congratulations for picking the price.
In the end, the curtain is drawn with a sigh—No matter the number,
the answer’s a lie.Proud of a freedom they never could claim,A ghost in the system,
a pawn in the game.The path leads to nowhere,
the script never bends,And the lie of choice is how the story ends.