It was a regular Thursday.
Wax oozed from the walls and the pores of our faces.
We stepped through the marble edifices of political gods,
Men and women like most of us. The wax was doctrine.
The surface deflected every scent but superiority.
Quiet howls shrieked, smothered by business casual. There are no people here.
Pentacles carved into these wondrous halls can’t be a coincidence if nothing is coincidence.
I am not coincidence. They are not coincidence.
So why I’m the world do we feel so out of our own skin?
Photo opps, flag halls. Pseudo strategy. Stop the anxiety.
The wax drips from these Corinthian bullies,
Bright eyes in white guise stand marbled with intimidating decorum.
If only we could connect with this history.
Of Sarah, and patriotism, Oliver Ames, Amen I say to you. To history.
Timidness stands where reverence deserves,
The wax coats these bodies fully
And I haven’t the chisel to break it.
Hurry up and wait.
Heat the wax, so it may set
And paralyze us all.
Why must this be so on Lobby Day?