the hood winked

Klint Hull 

Soft footfalls echo,
fall along a hall of
hard stone faces,
honored heroes held in stasis,
silently askance,
their arms of marble impotent:
spears stayed, swords sheathed.
As stoic eyes hold fixed and distant,
someone shadowed slips into a far
dark alcove, there to whisper something
unobserved.  Senators,

statesmen: muted voices,
words heard not but dimly
through the walls. They churn
and posture in the space where once
the norm was give-and-take. But now
the most they manage is dispute.

Immune to truth and resolute,
determined to deny all proof:
not one will honestly debate,
so locked are they in earnest
stalemate. Words a hollow wall: a
void divides. Acting arrogant, 
they avoid all other action.

A second shadow nods and slides
along a secret passage from the alcove,
west to east, into a secret room beyond.
On entering, he hesitates: 
He’ll wait until negotiations
with the honored foreign guest conclude.
Silently, he stands, despite distaste for seeing
actions criminal, or rash, or ill-advised at best.
Nearby, a chest with treasure sits ajar. There looms
the self-styled star. The foreign prince

breathes slow, transfixed,
steel tip against his lip, the hilt
gripped firmly in the right hand of the king.
The sovereign grins with pleasure at his sin.
His left hand dips again into the chest,
then to his vest, another handful
of the people’s coin within.

​