They gather in the town square, mouths full of scripture, hands empty of work.
Every sentence is a sermon, every action a performance.
You will believe in their goodness, they will make sure of it.
They wear their suffering like designer clothes,
tailored just right,
sized for engagement,
hemmed with validation.
Benevolence, once a quiet thing, is now screamed through megaphones,
echoing through algorithms,
pinging off the glass walls of their own reflection.
They don’t just do good—they need you to see it.
Their kindness comes with a receipt,
their outrage is for sale.
They weep on cue,
bleed on demand,
call it a revolution,
but it’s just another round of applause.
They kneel in the ashes of causes they do not understand,
building careers from the rubble,
raising monuments to their own empathy,
carved from the bones of whatever is trending.
They claim to be warriors.
But their battles are fought from ergonomic chairs,
their weapons are hashtags,
their victories are hollow.
You meet them in the streets, and they are nothing.
No light behind their eyes,
no depth to their words,
just echoes of whatever sells.
And when the wind shifts,
they shift with it,
abandoning the wreckage,
moving on to the next great cause,
leaving only footprints in the dust
and a trail of discarded convictions.
But oh, how they glow.
How they shine.
How they bask in the warmth of their own virtue
until the next fire needs fuel.
And maybe, just maybe,
this whole rant is its own flashing signal.
Maybe I’ve stitched my own sermon together with rusted nails
and tacked it to the same town square.
Maybe my pulpit is just a little lower,
my righteousness a little filthier.
But at least I know I’m a sinner,
and if I had the chance to sin again,
I’d double down,
call it an esoteric form of discipline,
and light a candle for my own damnation.
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