They built their temples from glass and signal towers,

from courtrooms lined with marble and quiet men in robes,

from pulpits raised above the trembling poor,

from barracks echoing with the boots of boys

who never learned the names of the gods they served.

The wealthy sat unseen behind the skyline,

their shadows long enough to touch every screen,

every verdict, every sermon, every flag.

They did not speak. They did not need to.

Their silence was command enough.

In the Temple of Media,

truth was bent like molten wire,

shaped to flatter the ones who owned the mirrors.

Priests of the broadcast blessed the lies,

and called them “breaking news.”

In the Temple of Justice,

the scales were weighted with gold dust.

Verdicts fell like coins into waiting hands,

and the blindfold was stitched

from the pockets of those who could not pay.