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The Wheel

· 3 min read
James Ambrose
James Ambrose

Foreward​

I didn't set out to write this piece.
It came through me the way exhaustion does
slow, quiet, and absolute.
Like many, I've been watching the world lose her shape
truth hollowed out, care turned into currency,
and suffering dressed up as inevitability.

I kept seeing the same pattern,
not just struggle, but design.
A wheel doesn't spin by accident.
It's built, maintained and greased with silence and fear.

This piece is an allegory,
but it's also a journal.
The devil in this story doesn't carry a pitchfork.
He signs contracts. He smiles in debates.
He thanks you for your labor
and leaves you with just enough to keep you alive, yet tired.

I wrote this for those who feel the weight but can't always name it.
This isn't a battle cry. It's a dirge for the living.
Because pain is not the end of us.
Because even ground-down voices can still hum.

And some songs
are stronger than the wheel.

The Wheel​

The earth was broken long ago,
Before we knew her name.
They carved the clouds into a brand,
Then sold us skies of flame.

And still, the wheel turns round,
Grinding bone and soil and sound.
We cry, we bleed, we till the ground
And still, the wheel turns round.

The healer's door is locked and cold,
Its key a price too steep.
The sick are told to wait in line—
Or pay, or pray, or weep.

And still, the wheel turns round,
Grinding bone and soil and sound.
We cry, we bleed, we till the ground—
And still, the wheel turns round.

The food is fake, the rent is real,
The clocks all run in debt.
We sell our breath to buy the means
To sleep, forget, and sweat.

And still, the wheel turns round,
Grinding bone and soil and sound.
We cry, we bleed, we till the ground—
And still, the wheel turns round.

The children learn to count in scars,
The newsmen sell us blame.
We know the world is burning down,
But never name the flame.

And still, the wheel turns round,
Grinding bone and soil and sound.
We cry, we bleed, we till the ground—
And still, the wheel turns round.

We are the cogs beneath the wheel,
Our breath the grease that keeps it fed.
It grinds us down, then pays in crumbs—
Just enough to fear the dead.

It turns, it turns, it always has
But every wheel runs thin.
And one day soon, the steel will slip
And let the fire in.