Golden lion gilt
touches every gesture.
The flourish
flaking off each figure,
like the work
of a low-rent Midas.
Illusions of opulence
to keep the poor at bay.
Imagine the artist,
hammering down leaf after leaf,
knowing the statuary
merely stands in
for the threat of violence.
But oh,
does it ever shine like the sun.
Few things impress like oppression.
The vain and initiated
love to gather around
and conjure up ever greater horrors
for their loyal subjects.
Most of us speak of wealth
in coin and cattle,
but for them,
the only currency
is blood and homage.
Men, women, and children,
numbered and marked.
Soldiers, priests, and adepts
for their churches
of self-veneration.
Slaves for toil,
stock to be bred,
and blood to be spilled
in their own name.
For every one
of those gilded statues
of stylistic, human forms
are merely
sacrificial altars to themselves.
Lords of men.
Gods.
Tyrants,
and petty criminals
of noble birth,
whose hands reach out
to gilt anything in their domain,
only to have it turn to ash.
That’s why the gold leaf
is so painstakingly applied.
For the master,
is just the servant
of another,
yet more wicked force.
Fear,
weakness,
and avarice
may force the artist’s hand,
but they do not make
the Philosopher’s Stone.
DJR – 2023
