That Hoary Gilded Capital

Walking sullied streets,

noting all the old deceits;

gold leaf peeling off in sheets.

~

Cracked and weathered stone,

reminiscent of old bone

cast aside to rot alone.

~

Maybe I’m jaded,

but it’s luster has faded,

past dignities degraded.

~

How have we become,

so uncaring, heartless, numb,

is there naught that can be done?

~

Dare we even try

to uphold truth to that lie,

“Great Republics can not die“?

~

If we can’t, we’re done.

Hare on off and have some fun.

Democracy’s race is run.

Ionic Ironies

Air filled with portents,

intangible potentials

seeking easy paths to ground.

~

How that huge old tree

must feel the charges building;

dread their incandescent leap!

~

And, yet, there he stands,

reaching up, ever higher,

as though to taunt the lightning.

~

Will that shocking bolt

strike him by complete surprise

when it rends him asunder?

~

What of his remains?

Will they stand for the ages;

A monument to folly?