Dreamspace Studio

The emperor knows now—his robes were a myth,
stitched from ego and sealed in spit.
He stands in the center, bare and squawking,
a puppet unstrung, unhinged, and proud.

The crowd once cheered; now they stare.
Some still clap, but most don’t care.
Even the jesters shift their weight—
Whispers of treason are now louder than hate.

A monster draining his own swamp—
Or is he the gator?
No, not even.
The alligator’s just a creature,
a product of its habitat.
He built the habitat. He birthed the rot.

Built it brick by razor wire,
called it safety, called it right.
But we see you, devil in denim—
Your cages of death shine in the night.

You tried to drain ours,
But you’re drowning in yours.

He gave them medals, not courage.
Diplomas, not learning.
A ticking heart, but no feeling—
Cheap tokens in a crumbling land
Where meaning was murdered for showmanship.

He sent a child to do his slaying,
a girl not yet grown,
into the fire to silence a witch
He feared to name.

Behind the curtain: a humbug,
a fraud—just fog and flame.
The emperor stands unclothed.
The wizard’s head? Hollow and gold-plated.

And now he claws at the sand,
At tides he cannot command,
At the smoke, he once shaped into power
But can no longer hold in his trembling hands.

They are saying the obvious now,
not the quiet parts, not the whispers.
Burning torches and reclaimed taunts.
Pests in khakis,
false fighters in polos,
Reenactors who might be in militia cosplay.

Where are the oaths? Where are the lines?
Who guards the guards?
When robes and badges trade hands
Like playing cards at a child emperor’s table?

He’s nervous.
His fear is palpable, resonating with each of us.
He screams louder now,
a decoy dance of distraction—
because the shadows are shifting.

The documents sing beneath the waves,
And the list—the list wants to surface.

He’s tried everything:
Rage, rally, redirection.
It reeks of panic,
of an empire falling apart from the inside,
like spoiled fruit in the sun.

Despite his tactics, we remain unyielding.

In this liminal tide,
between the world that was
and the one we are still forging
from broken glass and protest songs,
We do not sleep.

The tide is turning, inevitably, like the seasons.
Change is coming, and it’s on our side.
The ghost wind is at our backs.
The ancestors are awake.
The ink is wet. The pen is ours now.

We do not forget.
We will not stop.
Together, we are a force to be reckoned with.
We are not afraid to name what must be called.