He rode the roar of rapturous slurs,
A TV king in monarchs’ furs.
The cameras drank. The circus swelled.
Somewhere, a child in concrete held.

He dined on cake while the clinics closed,
And called it freedom as darkness rose.
A grandmother chose between her pills and heat—
He checked his handicap. Ordered something sweet.

He taught his flock to fear their kin.
He made suspicion sacrament, not sin.
A mother set one plate. Then there were none.
Some doors close quiet. Damage done.

A whisper: they’re not like us, you know.
The casserole she’d planned to bring? Let go.
A wave across the lawn. No wave returned.
Nobody spoke. Everybody learned.

He called them vermin. Criminals. A scourge.
One stood in protest. Then ten. Compassion surged.
He called them poison. Invasion. A threat.
A church unlocked its doors. The table set.

His empire cracked. The gold was always fake.
The country woke. But something still would ache.
They said the fight was over, he had won.
The bruise would fade. Years after he was gone.

His name is fading. Hers is just begun.
A mother held her daughter toward the sun.

Author’s Note: Revised 12/29/2025