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.

Panic’s Hidden Damage 

When that panicked flight is run

and you stand bent, heaving for breath,

pause to assay the damage done

in your mad dash from imagined death.

The cuts and scrapes and nicks and tears

inflicted on your skin and clothes

Pale beside those fearful stares;

They’ll heal and mend, but what of those?

They’ll linger on, for quite awhile,

like articles archived away

deep in some drawer, a dusty file

saved to show, some distant day,

offered up as specious proof

That you’re not calm, cool, and aloof!