The ladder gleams, 
but never rusts
it’s never met the soil.

From polished heights, 
they summon contracted ghosts, 
specters in suits, 
hollow hands that sign 
but never build.

Greed wears a tie, 
apathy seals the deal. 
We, the handlers, 
catch the crumbs 
of their lazy feast
tardy briefs, 
half-baked decks, 
pixels that scream “we didn’t care.”

You never want to call out the rot. 
You want silence, 
compliance, 
a nod that costs us sleep.

Are you
you hypocrite
the one who preaches excellence 
while outsourcing mediocrity?

They say you’re vile. 
They whisper bribes. 
They count the favors 
you never earned.

But a corner of me 
still believe you. 
Still hopes 
you’re just lost, 
not bought.

Because if you are
if the ladder’s gold 
was greased with lies
then what are we climbing for?

– A Solivagant’s Shoes