Moon at Half Past Noon

Welcome, esteemed patrons, to our celebrated charade,
This masterpiece of Progress, buffed to a high-gloss, hollow grade.
The stage is set for “More,” the farce—”A Future Fair and Free.”
You’ve paid with more than coin for this curated dystopia.
The air hangs thick with Freedom™, a synthetic, sweetened spray,
As you sink into the velvet of the doomsday cabaret.

Behold our star performers, a clown-regime supreme:
Mister Free Market, slick with oil and a pipeline dream,
And Madame State, who juggles her bureaucratic crowns,
Squabbling over the scorched earth while the balcony looks down.
He roars, “Infinite growth! The one true faith confessed!”
She shrieks, “My calibrated cure for the panic you suggest!”

They spin in staged collisions, a well-oiled, vicious dance,
Their strings all intertwined in a gilded governance.
They sell the scenery piecemeal, with a eco-friendly glee—
The river “Surplus” bottled as a “Memory of the Sea.”
The forest “Heritage” chipped down for a “Green Revolution” plaque,
Nailed over fissures widening in the crumbling stage of fact.

And you, the savvy audience, bathed in your gadget-glow,
Applaud the pointed ballads while the sponsored wines flow.
“You see the script is toxic,” your enlightened murmurs hum,
“But my subscription’s active, so I guess I must succumb.”
“Assign the blame for wildfires? The floods? The shifting line?”
You post a clever warning while you sip your fair-trade wine.

You boo the named villains, you cheer the branded lies,
A chorus of algorithms in comfortable disguise.
The scenery now smolders, the lights now sting and ache,
The grand machinery shudders with each entitlement you stake.
The Director makes his entrance: “Behold! Our New, New Way!”
But the backdrop is a void, and the script has had its day.

The house lights blast you awake; the spectacle is through.
A standing ovation echoes for the nothing left to view.
And you, still stuck to seats now crusted with the cost,
Read the fine print on the ticket for the future that you lost.
The velvet gate swings shut. Was the premium view so fine—
When your comfort purchased every inch of this decline?