The Sulfur Pool

By Andrew R. Duckworth

In the sulfur stinking up the
Palace halls lurks a blending
Of all sins, veins coursing
With the blood of tyrants,
The sort that have come and gone
But left their stains to be picked
Up at the buffet of politicians.
The liars, the cheats
Walking to their own beats,
Ignoring the voices of the beaten,
Take their steps from that
Sulfur pool, one more step
To the throne from the deep.
And the people are asleep,
Under a blanket of stars,
Thinking nothing can harm.
But the sulfur pool is most
Active under the cover
Of darkness, where their sins
Are hidden by a ceiling
Of headlines and talking heads.
They may rest on royal beds,
But they stain the sheets
With their hot tar covered feet.
Each step, a new footprint
To be examined by the wise,
Those who understand
That evil has nested in the land
Where freedom was once.
One need only follow the stench
To find the altar they built
To an unknown god of their own
Construction.
Destruction looms in a place
More concerned with saving face
Than reflecting in the water
Of history’s river.