The Elect.

He sat in his glorious golden throne, peering at us from his forty-fifth tower floor of a predecessors’ pedestal. His brittle corn colored hair and caustic words smeared his essence across the realm. He gawked at us as we fumbled our falls and hid our faces from foreign onlookers- looking to us- and finding his lies- our lies, covered in plastic. His name made some shake, most wake, dictated conversations that were once ours to control, now he titled himself, entitled himself to a life of evasion, inconsequential pursuit, and dictation. He deemed himself infallible- to promote- to decree- fiction upon each fact despite expertise of minds unlike his and various recognized data. Walking like an elite, then a king, then a God- determining the fate of which, we, ourselves wrote. He trumped over us all.