BLACK LEDGER – by Lucid Hertz

They crowned a paper god and called it trust,
turned breath to numbers, faith to dust.
Minted your mornings, leased your nights,
sold you a future at compound rates.

Money ain’t wealth—it’s a leash with gloss,
ink on a promise, profit on loss.
They print the storm, you buy the rain,
then pay forever for someone else’s gain.

Banks built cathedrals of quiet theft,
altars of credit where hope gets swept.
Interest is tithing to the throne of lack,
inflation is tax that never looks back.

War is a market; fear is a sell,
bonds ring bells while empires swell.
They lend to both sides, bless the dead,
then count the blossoms of blood they bred.

I watched them launder the weight of a lie,
rename the shackle “American pie.”
Petro-prayers, reserve-chained deals,
silk-gloved hands on rusted wheels.

They call it “easing,” I call it a drain,
ghosting your labor through paper rain.
Your granddad’s hour in a grocery aisle,
shrinks to a minute every fiscal mile.

CBDC saints with silicon hymns,
“Safety,” “inclusion,” varnished whims.
Scan of your smile to buy your bread,
toggle your funds from a central head.

I don’t want credits; I want the clear,
value that lives where the heart holds near.
The gold I carry’s a sovereign spark,
a ledger in bone that won’t turn dark.

Nemesis steps in with a blade for the seal:
“Call it a system; I call it a meal.
You are the dinner; debt is the plate,
fees are the forks, and fraud is the grace.”

He names the temples: clearinghouse kings,
Babel of ledgers with dragon wings.
IMF incense, BIS bells,
policy cursive that writes new hells.

He laughs at the slogans: “Banking for good,”
then pulls the rug where the slogans stood.
“Know-your-customer”? Know your cage.
“Anti-launder”? Wash the page.

He spits: “Cash was a whisper, now it’s a scan,
credit is cattle, data’s the brand.
The more you tap, the less you own,
until your palm is a barcoded bone.”

—

I answer with fire they didn’t insure:
“Value is labor made living and pure.
Worth is the art that the soul creates,
not digits released by unseen gates.”

We trade in presence, price our days,
keep our treasure in honest ways:
bread from a neighbor, craft from a friend,
circles of trust that don’t need a pen.

If money must live, let it be clear—
backed by the work, not baptized in fear.
Let currency die where conscience ends;
let credit be love we lend as friends.