There’s a road where the facts don’t matter, just the flag you carry in. Truth gets sold behind a login, buried deep beneath a spin. They don’t shoot the ones who tell it, just erase them from the feed. And the ones who keep it quiet never have to take the lead. Tell the truth, and they’ll burn the ledger. Truth don’t last in the hands of kings. Say it plain, and watch the silence gather stones and clip your wings. Truth won’t keep you warm. They call it brave when the risk is gone, but not when it still draws heat. The first one speaks — the rest stay low, scrolling past with steady feet. There’s no reward for breaking silence, just a quiet shift in air. And when the light begins to flicker, most pretend it isn’t there. Tell the truth, and they’ll burn the ledger. Truth don’t last in the hands of kings. Say it plain, and watch the silence gather stones and clip your wings. Truth won’t keep you warm. It won’t feed you. It won’t save you. It won’t answer when they call your name. It won’t hold your job, won’t hold your breath, won’t hold a seat for you when they change the frame. But it stays — like something planted long before they learned your face. No parade for the buried voices, no plaque on the corner wall. But the story bends when no one watches, and the lie begins to stall. Not every wind gets noticed, not every spark takes flame — but the map still shifts each time you name a name. Tell the truth, and they’ll burn the ledger. Truth don’t last in the hands of kings. Say it plain, and watch the silence gather stones and clip your wings. Truth won’t keep you warm.
