The Ass of the Year

This ass,

rides high on stubborn pride,

stands smug, in a suit worth more

than all the riches of the workers he feeds on.

His red tie dangles like a flag—

a declaration,

a warning,

a noose.

Hands deep 

in so many pockets,

he moves through marble halls,

ears twitching to the hum

of war machines, stock tips—,

muted echoes,

silenced prayers, 

the powerless.

He’s no leader—

just a pack mule in golden handcuffs

who hauls the heft of the Warehouse Pharaoh,

builds glass pyramids from shattered lives—

Who deals futures at a crooked table

and cloaks his empire in 

freedom’s ragged mantle.

A mule doesn’t ask, doesn’t choose.

Blinders on, it bears the load,

dirt or diamonds.

It’s all the same.

Behind him, colors flash:

blue and gold,

a battlefield,

and he, born of war and greed,

stands in quiet collusion—

a smiling symbol of a world on fire.

“This isn’t about politics,”

he whispers to himself.

“This is survival:

the mortgage, the bonuses,

the tailored suit.”

His humanity, packed away,

folded neatly,

forgotten.

But beneath the polished veneer,

he wonders if he really is an ass,

braying into the winter wind,

living in the hollow barn of himself.

He dreams, sometimes,

of something softer:

a field of hay,

the awe of an innocent child,

a moment without the weight.

But the path is endless,

his burdens unyielding,

and the whip never far behind.

In the end, will he be led to shelter,

his burdens released,

his name reclaimed?

Or will he be put out to pasture,

remembered as the beast he became?