Isn’t it extraordinary, that madness for power, even
among the elderly;
to be prestigious, exalted even
when their bones are
creaking out some sos, even
though beneath their
shining flags and emblems
are the same squalid
cabals, conspiring in the early
hours with barely
concealed hatred; no pettiness too
petty, no injury too
injurious, except that they might
be seen for what
they are.
To be among the
trappings of high position,
the gaudily
decorated, plaster- thin constructions,
spiders still
spinning in the cavities behind them.
To have, on some
corridor wall, a portrait painted in a
fashion that has not
aged well, and youngsters filing past
wondering ‘How
much longer to lunchtime?’
1 comment:
Thaanks for sharing
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