The Corporate Myth

The windows were washed out, the hallways were long,

A chorus of voices sang only one song.

They said “Bring your culture, your spirit, your name!”

Provided you acted exactly the same.

You could wear any colour, as long as it’s grey,

You could think any thought, if you thought it their way.

A young one named Ellie, curious in soul,

Was tired of playing a pre-written role.

She wanted to walk to the heart of the room,

Where the men at the top cast a shadowy gloom.

She wished she could raise up a hand and just pry:

"I see where we’re going, but may I ask: Why?"

She could see it play out, the air’d become thin.

Those at the top would shift like she’d sinned.

But it made no sense to use maps of the past,

Which centred on obsolete science and craft,

Those who craved progress and breaking the mold,

Could not use rulebooks that were ancient and cold.

The ones at the top, she’d figured, were stone,

Peering down from the height of their solid gold thrones.

"The rules are the rules," they’d say a yawn,

"To question the structure means you don’t belong.

The hierarchy stands so the weak do not fall,

It’s the framework of order that governs us all."

Why follow it though, if the framework was bent?

It shutout the voices for whom it was meant.

The people below had visions so bright,

But they remained in darkness, away from the light.

Why’d the ideas start with the elite,

While the ones with the answers weren’t able to speak?

She knew the top dogs would spin a whole tale,

"Because to do otherwise would mean we could fail.

The ladder is sacred; the rungs proven tough,

We’ve done it this way, and that is enough."

But in Ellie’s mind, she already knew.

This was a repeat of an oppressive view.

If the logic was circular, where would it end?

How many more lives would be force-fit and bent?

Ellie walked through, to the Hall of the Great,

Where the statues of history stood in their state.

She looked at the pillars, the framework, the bone,

And saw that the "Progress" was etched into stone.

The stone was a relic of conquest and fear,

A history built so the top were safe here.

She asked herself quietly, “Why do we keep

These laws that make half of our citizens weep?”

The voice inside said: “It’s the path of the sage,

It’s written in ink on the very first page."

Why it was written, still fully ignored—

To keep some in power and the rest on the floor.

Ellie returned to the Land of the Kings,

Amidst the “inclusive, diversified” things.

The puppets were dancing, the lies were still fed,

How the spirit of change was most definitely not dead.

But she’d seen the records, she’d peered through the glass,

She knew how the dreamers were quickly outcast.

They boasted the 'different,' they begged for ‘new gems,'

But only if ‘different' was exactly like them.

The hierarchy choked every hand that is raised,

While the ghost of Tradition was endlessly praised.

Today, at the top, they sit untouchable,

Tired by those who’ve grown critical.

The answer that rings out through hall and through glen:

Is “Because that is the way it has always been."

In those nine short words, the oppression is clear,

The sound of a cage reinforced over years.

A history founded on shadows and chains,

Flowing like ice through societal veins.

Tradition is not a defense or a cause,

It’s the scream of the tyrant, the silence of laws.

The diversity valued remains but a skin,

Stretched over a decorative prop skeleton.