The hill

On the hill of marble and of gold, where power is the only story told, a drama sets up with the neon glow, while people below have nowhere to go. In Washington, the show never rests, with cameras, screaming, and endless tests, a dance of hollow promises, eternal strife, a political theatre that dictates life.
The red attacks the blue without remorse, shouting offences, pure, false discourse. The blue replies with an equal dose of spite, filling the audience’s feed, day and night. A wrestling match that is choreographed, with the public’s attention utterly drafted, watching the tweet and the flash scandal’s flare, forgetting the heavy burdens that they bear.
And while they wrestle up on the stage, the law that truly matters turns the silent page. Laws with small print, tightly sewn and fit, that thicken the wealthy’s overflowing account bit by bit. The money climbs, heading straight to the sky, saving Wall Street whenever troubles fly. The owners of the towers and the giant banks, laugh at the whole charade from their high ranks.
Because down below, on the asphalt that cracks, the common citizen no longer keeps tracks, of this costly setup, this unending tale, that only distracts while their paycheck fails. The prices climb, and healthcare dissolves, while the politician only throws mist that evolves. They toss us crumbs of minimal aid, and in exchange, ask for our silent trade.
It’s the Bread and Circus of the twenty-first age, where anger is a useful tool to engage. So you keep watching the debate, the filthy fight, while the wealthy execute their business just right. This is how the old tradition is sustained: to keep the flame down, easily contained. Let them keep fighting, let them play the game, while their pockets keep growing just the same, filling up at the expense of our daily toil. We’re just the audience on their grand soil.

Trap drill