Feudal moon

 

The sails may change,

but the chains remain,

forged from the same old iron,

tempered in the same old pain.

History is a heavy wheel,

that merely rolls across grander maps,

exporting the ancient machinery of conquest,

into the unblemished dark,

where the silence snaps.

The old world never truly ended,

it simply acquired better optics,

and a higher velocity.

The conquistadors do not retire,

they merely swap the wooden hull,

for a steel tube,

carrying the ledger of human misery,

into the quiet of the void,

until the stars are full.

The tragedy of the frontier,

is that the flag arrives,

long before the philosophy.

We look at the stars,

and see a canvas for liberation,

while the architects of the estate,

are already measuring the sky for fence posts,

preparing to build new plantations,

among the asteroids.

The corporate race to the moon,

is just Jamestown,

with a liquid oxygen booster.

Society loves to mistake,

a change in altitude,

for a change in attitude,

celebrating the expansion of the boundary line,

as if it were the expansion of the soul.

The ultimate historical irony,

is using the fire of the gods,

to export the feudalism of the dirt.

A civilization that colonizes the cosmos,

before dismantling its own plantations,

is merely putting a gilded crown,

on a plague ship.

Gold,

glory,

and gravity,

have always shared,

the exact same trajectory.