He rises by the silence of those
who should have known better.
They hand him the match,
then blame the fire for burning.
He speaks in hungers, not words,
a man who needs the world to kneel
so he can stand.
Every crisis is a mirror
where he rehearses his sainthood.
Watch the pattern:
first the party bends,
then the courts bruise,
then the people learn
that fear is a leash
and loyalty is a currency
paid in pieces of themselves.
But he never works alone.
There are always architects
who sharpen his shadows,
always hands that steady the ladder
as he climbs onto the roof
to declare himself the storm.
And the crowd ....
God, the crowd ....
they chant his name
as if it might save them
from the consequences
of chanting his name.
This is how a nation learns
that complicity is a quiet knife,
that psychology is a weapon
when wielded by a man
who mistakes devotion for destiny,
and that the fall
is never sudden.
It begins with a shrug.
It ends with a uniform.
Everything in between
is just the slow,
methodical,
white‑hot
collapse
of people who thought
it could never happen
here.
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20 January 2026