The View from the Fluffy Chair

The View from the Fluffy Chair
Self-serving politicians,
Blinded by the glare of partisan optics,
Scanning the horizon for enemies.
Lost in the gulf of distance,
They forget where the common path once lay-
Beneath their feet: the soil, not the gilded chill
Of floors lined with remedies.

They could have tasted it-
The sterile chill of waiting rooms,
The sting of a missed prescription.

They could have felt the pulse of need,
Not bowed to billionaires.
No kitchen-table talk,
No shared laughter over a movie’s plot,
Not even a simple walk.

And in the center-the prize:
A leather throne,
A flood of credit and perks,
Coverage aging like a bottle of wine,
Sealed with cork,
Comfort that numbs,
With oligarch protection.

A feast of influence and insulation.
The taste-too sweet to forget.
They have everything;
We watch.
We learn.
We take notes.

“What do you have?” they ask.
“You have nothing.
You are nothing.
You build nothing.”

Citizens reduced to currency-
Fuel for the grinding gears of power.
Work them hard, confuse and drain,
A blind sprint toward control
That scorches the hands
That once lit the flame.

They run with horse blinders on,
Hyped on steroids of pride.
And when the chariot’s wheel flies off-
For lack of grace or guidance-
They’ll blame the horses,
Call them “unruly,”
To hide behind their pretense.

From the comfort of that fluffy chair,
They sculpt the angle, polish the frame,
Wrap their lies in thought’s disguise.
They twist the truth
Until the breath of reason caves in.
They need money-some gold and some cash.
Beneath the silk and camera blink,
Their flaws are covered without rush.

So the message is clear:
Don’t tell them
You’re old and tired,
Or poor or sick.

You’re just data
In someone’s game.
Whatever you say
Is sorted and scored-
The algorithms of doubt
Assigning you to blame.

Let the people’s debt roll,
A snowball gathering weight.
Let rust gather on the plow.
Let bridges crumble.
Let the innocents wait.

“The basket of deplorables.”
“The enemies within.”
Let them go hungry.
Let their schools decay.
Let their sneakers gather the mud of their stories.
Then, obedient citizens,
Invite them to our election rallies.

They forget:
Once power and glamour
Slip beneath their skin,
They fall into conflict-
No need for caution,
Pursuing holy grails
With mirror’s fascination.

Life inside a power bubble,
Lined with velvet walls.
Flying high,
The air grows thin-
A predictable script:
A slow suffocation.

Ego, money, power-rooted deep.
“I will not give this up,” they whisper.
“I will conjure ghosts for you to fear.
I will parse the truth until it serves me.
The people’s work can wait-
This chair is mine to keep.”

Politics: a short season.
Humanity: a marathon for life.

We, the people,
Fall and rise together-
A few flames of greed
Against the commons’ resilience.

“What do you have?”
Fluffy chairs,
Guns and tanks-in thousands.
You’ll meet the strength
Of working hands-
In millions.