seventeen shadows
sit around the edges of the room
seventeen faces darkened by their days
blighted by the imposed image
broken thought and collapsed reason
seventeen shadows
under threat of night
one steps forth and begins to utter
carved words from the bedrock of emotion
that they all share
sixteen heads nod in unison
agreeable to the notions
sixteen hands launch the labor
of bending the kings english to the love of words
rather than the devotion to ideal
twelve souls remain hours later
unburnt by time and efforts
sweat bathed they break the silence
pay homage to the daily grind
'unto Caesar what...'
so the twelve sit in attempted rational judgement
weigh the matter with deliberate care
but the carousel is running backwards now
and the man with the funny nose and oversized shoes
is the caretaker and caregiver
to the dead and dying ideals of democracy
five more of the shadows in the room slip to the door
and flee
five remain standing
testament to the resolve
of mans inability to reason
my daily grind...same seventeen faces, same seventeen ideals