Among this political wreckage,
you believe you are immune.
You’ve mastered how to package
and sell sands of a shifting dune
into a breakable capsule
that keeps false measurements of each hour,
marginalizing the ones who supported you
to build your granular tower.
Through entitlement, you’ve monopolized oases
to moisten against the arid dry.
While the pool is aplenty for all of us,
you require some of us to shrivel and die.
Our imposed lots are preexisting conditions
to legislate against and ignore.
The premium of living beneath you
is the reward of being poor.
But, dunes cannot be bought or owned.
They shift according to their own will.
So, you try to protect your sandcastle
by branding trickery from the Hill.
You’ve marketed success in a package
with shiny American, Jesus trim.
But according to Luke 16:19-31,
you clearly don’t know him.
Nomads have always roamed these sands,
navigating its every inclination.
They’ve mastered its whispers and drifting winds,
mindfully reaching their destination.
They know it scolds and burns and blasts,
remembering no matter your best attempt–
no sandcastle ever lasts,
and not one of us is exempt.
Sandcastles built with shovel and pail
don’t build you towers in the sky.
In the end, all hourglasses crack,
and every single one of us will die.