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 The Reckoning

I cannot let this day slip by

without shouting into the void of my disappointment.

The charges are gone, swept like dust under a gilded rug,

and yet the truth remains, burning:

He was guilty.

You know it.

I know it.

The weight of it presses against my chest,

how a man so stained could hold the reins again.

He ran for power to shield himself,

a crown to escape the scales of justice.

He will pardon himself,

stand smug on the green of manicured lies,

a golf swing on our dime,

while we watch,

while we ache.

Do you remember?

He told them to march.

I saw it.

I was there, and the echoes of that day

still ricochet in my mind.

I will not forget.

I will not forgive.

Not the man who lit the match,

nor the hands that handed him the flame.

You who cast your vote,

for cheaper gas, for eggs, for promises spun from deceit,

or worse—

you, who saw the ugliness and shrugged.

He is a bigot, and it didn’t stop you.

He is cruel, and you let it slide.

You looked away, silent, complicit.

And in that silence, the cracks widened.

The grave error was yours,

but I do not have the breath left

to plead with you to see.

I will watch as it unfolds,

as the curtain lifts on this tragedy we have built,

brick by brick, with our denial.

And when the moment arrives—

when the mask slips and the monster stands revealed—

it will be too late.

Do you see the bodies yet?

The ones already fallen,

the ones to come?

They are part of the price,

written in the fine print of your choices.

There is no blanket thick enough to hide under now,

no silence deep enough to escape the echo of what is coming.

None of us will walk away unscathed.

Not even you.

Author Unknown