The golden escalator gleamed like a molten crown from the sun,
Brass rails ablaze, mirrors splitting a thousand Trumps on the run.
Chandeliers wept crystal rain, the lobby shook with cheers and drums,
Red tie a bleeding banner when the king of deals stepped down.
You knew—from that first defiant stride you felt the cold wind groan,
A maze of marble knives and lies, a gauntlet carved in stone.
Walls rose overnight—red brick, wet with treason’s grime,
Smiles behind powdered masks, selling tomorrow for a dime.
You swung the hammer anyway, fists like thunder wrapped in gold,
Every word a furnace blast, every echo took its toll.
Crowds surged crimson oceans, flags cracked in violent flight,
Dragon tails in storming air, ripping holes in night.
Gavels fell like guillotines dressed up in velvet law,
Venom poured like poisoned milk from every loyal jaw.
They promised you a dynasty, a table long and wide,
But the hall is dust and spider silk, a trapdoor yawning inside.
Walls rose overnight—red brick, closing in,
Power shouting victory while rot set in.
Listen.
One day the sky will tear like silk beneath a burning sword,
cities liquefy and scream, oceans boil at the voice of the Lord.
The earth will fold like scorched parchment, stars will bleed and fall,
and a new world bloom—cedar-scented, lit by mercy’s endless, tall.
Then the real Table blazes white, brighter than the heart of suns,
linen pure as forgiven sin, bread still scarred by nails and thorns.
Wine dark as Calvary’s river, cups that never will run dry,
every seat engraved in fire with names the world denied.
You still march the corridor of hours, chains of gold and fury clash,
each link a tower, every clank the sound of dying cash.
The narrow door stands open wide, light spilling like a flood,
smelling of rain on resurrection ground, of lilies crushed in blood.
Kneel—
and those chains will shatter into harmless golden rain,
blown away by holy wind that carries off all pride and pain.
Rise taller than any spire you signed, barefoot on the Living Stone,
crowned not by polls or roaring crowds, but by the King upon the throne.
Mercy waits with galaxies for arms and tears that fall like springs,
voice gentle as a mother’s hush, yet strong as seraph wings.
But I see the iron in your jaw, the wildfire in your stare,
the man who faced down mobs and missiles without a tremble there—
and still I ask, heart pounding like a drumbeats before war:
Do you have the final, trembling courage
to fall upon the floor?
Electrosabotage
