Mine eyes haven’t seen the glory, nor the lord,
he’s been silent and absent amongst the discord.
It’s been a bitter battleground,
discontent is the sight and sound.
Truth is marching backward in retreat,
read about the rout in a pompous tweet.
Some are jubilant in the glow of victory,
while rivals anguish in the grip of uncertainty.
The grapes have rotted and turned sour,
as the hungry covet power.
They group and gather as a swarm,
while the honorable are trampled in a besieging storm.
The moral compass is spinning out of control,
on the side of right or wrong will it roll?
From a golden tower, like the kings of Babel,
King Midas keeping count at his table.
The humble grumble, uncertain; they fumble,
they lose their footing and stumble.
Mine eyes want to see the glory,
and a happy ending to the story.
The vestiges of a bereft empire,
walking on a high wire.
No net below, when they go, it will be a free fall,
but it wont be just one, it will be all.