TRUMPERY

When a fool gains power,
they do not fear the ignorant.

They fear the ones
who remember yesterday
when they rewrite it today.

They fear the ones
who ask why
when the crowd is chanting yes.

They fear the ones
who refuse to salute
a lie
simply because it stands
beside a flag.

So first,
they silence them.

Not always with prisons.

Sometimes with a podium.
Sometimes with a headline.
Sometimes with a thousand voices
repeating the same lie
until truth begins
to sound suspicious.

They point at the wise
and call them traitors.

They point at the frightened
and give them someone
to blame.

Then the fool
gathers followers.

Lackeys.

Those who nod
before the fool finishes speaking.

Those who applaud
before they understand.

Cowards who rename obedience
loyalty,

and loyalty
patriotism.

Soon,
the room becomes an echo.

Every reflection
begins to look the same.

The cameras keep rolling.

The microphones wait patiently
for the next lie
to become policy.

Every failure
belongs to an enemy.

Every warning
becomes an attack.

Every question
becomes disrespect.

And the people?

They choose sides.

Red.
Blue.

Us.
Them.

They wrap themselves in colors
and scream across fences
at neighbors
whose names they once knew.

They wave flags
over their anger,

while hands behind polished desks
quietly rewrite the rules.

The fool smiles.

Because while the nation argues
over who belongs,

no one notices
what is being taken.

A right here.

A truth there.

A history rewritten.

A voice removed.

Piece by piece.

Until truth becomes treason.

Cruelty becomes strength.

Ignorance becomes conviction.

And obedience
becomes freedom.

Then one day,
the fool stands
before the ruins
of everything
they promised to save.

The Capitol is still there.

The flag is still flying.

The anthem still plays.

So the people convince themselves
the nation survived.

And when the fool raises a hand,

they applaud.

Not because they believe.

Because silence
has learned to look like guilt,

and praise
still feels safe.

Then again...

I want to believe
I would have known better.

That I would have seen the lie
before it learned my language.

That I would have stood silent
when everyone else applauded.

But certainty
has a voice of its own.

And I wrote this believing
I knew exactly
who the fool was.

I could see their face.

Hear their voice.

Recognize their followers.

That certainty
felt good.

And that
should frighten me most.

Because somewhere
another fool
is writing the same poem,

pointing in my direction,

certain
they're the wise one.

And perhaps
when there is nothing left
to save,

there will be no fools left
to blame.

Only a mirror.

And in mine—

I'm that fool.