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calamity of the ringing flaws of nationwide pride
rolls down like the red carpet, procuring our attention
demanding the vowels that allow us to pronounce the absurdity within reality

resembling the sweat that trails down the peasant's brow
sliding, catching the dirt within its slightly viscid calm
with a conscience of its own, landing where it tickles most

history doesn't happen in the late night telephone calls
or between the expanding cracks of the cylindrical sidewalks
look up the word realpolitik, and repeat for added effect; consider economy.

that first stroke of bloody red, on the clean pristine canvas
marked the beginning of the end of your apocalyptic prophecy
fixated with the mutilated glory, letting go becomes your crucifixion

each crevice of this mold screams your name in vain, in shame
I see an unreliable pattern, tracking that chancellor's adulterous touch
but don't break your back, deciphering the code that wasn't coherent to begin with.