Sunnyside Down

at first, the eggs shine like tiny suns—promises of breakfast and simple joy.

...until the flat screen reveals disheartening trends caused by failing efforts.

we reach deeper in our pockets, hoping to whisk optimism into the bowl—a little inflation never broke a dream.

however,

nothing moves but the price...

we go about our day, never seeing the darker truth, believing in what should be believable: that life can stay kind and honesty doesn't spoil overnight.

we budget.

adjust.

we trade steak for chicken and call it discipline, trusting that normalcy is just around the corner—

that we will return to what feels right, to what makes us strive for freedom.

yet, we're still left in the red, because

nothing moves but the price...

the eggs grow heavier with truth.

and suddenly, the metaphor hits hard.

we stand there, holding the carton, realizing the joke was never about breakfast.

it's about the men who tell big, beautiful lies and insist their insolence has nothing to do with rotten eggs.

we hold these truths to be self-evident: every one-trick puppet refuses to stand behind virtuous values handed down to them, scrambling every promise made.

with each terminal class act they make, the trench only deepens—proving yet again why

nothing moves but the price...