The Curse of Fiat Currency
By: HT
In the waltz of paper bills, a silent thief does tread, upon the backs of toiling folk, it lays its heavy head. Fiat, the master puppeteer, with strings of ink and lore, dances the dance of hidden tax, a ghost within the core.
With every print and minting press, the specter's reach extends, a subtle, creeping malaise that on naught but trust depends.
Value, once anchored in the earth, now drifts upon the breeze, as currency inflates away, a ceaseless, swelling disease.
The poor man's sweat, the rich man's gold, both shackled to this fate, for as the money's worth declines, it's poverty they date.
A cycle vicious, spiraling, where ends meet not their means, in the hollow echo of coin's fall, hear the silent screams.
Eroded savings whisper tales of labors lost to air, while markets heave in fevered pitch, a gambler's desperate prayer. The hidden hand that guides this plight, invisible in sway,
Strangles hope with velvet gloves, in daylight's brazen fray.
The widow's mite, the orphan's crust, grow scant as prices soar, while towers of the ivory elite rise evermore. A chasm vast between the classes, drawn by fiat's pen, inscribes an epitaph of dreams, again, and yet again.
Yet in this darkened currency, a truth does lie in wait, for every note that's printed, seals a further twisted fate. A promise made without a base, is but a hollow vow, and in the end, the house of cards must surely tumble down.
So heed the tale of paper chains, and watch the puppet's dance, for in the folds of fiat's realm, we're caught by mere chance.
Until the day when value's tied to something firm and true, the pain and suffering shall persist, as old becomes the new.
