The Man in the House
In an age
when old letters bent into sharper shapes,
when hoods were traded
for flags,
he triumphed.
Chaos became custom.
Anti-rule. Anti-order.
“Burn it down,” they murmured.
“Surely he can do no worse
than the fools before him.”
“Less government,”
the crowd reasoned
as the State
moved quietly into bedrooms.
“Lower taxes.”
Yes, for those already gilded.
Then came the Plague.
“It will thin the herd,” some said.
“The frail are costly.”
As if breath were a ledger.
As if mercy were excess.
“Better health care,”
they shouted from the rafters.
Better how?
By subtraction?
By the swing of an unseen ax?
By absence dressed as reform?
“I am your greatest ally,” he boasted.
Yet histories dimmed on the walls.
Names faded from plaques.
Portraits vanished from the gallery.
“I will protect you,” he proclaimed.
And gates rose higher.
And cages appeared
where cradles had been.
And sirens shrieked through the night
of our cities.
“I have ended wars,” he declared.
Yet embers glowed
beyond the fence line.
Carnage in fits and starts.
So many trespasses.
No one looks up.
No one wants to.
“Give him a prize,” someone whispered.
For vision. For victory. For greatness.
The house still stands.
The banner still flies.
But listen closely and you will hear
the beams strain.
The foundation shifts
inch by inch.
Is this the dwelling
you meant to inherit?