A gilded crest of lacquered foam, a crown of yellow hair,
Above a brow of thunderclouds and deadly promises of air.
He strides upon a stage of glass, a master of the screen,
While shadows of a shorter ghost dance softly in between.
Both found a nation’s spirit bruised, a pride that turned to rust,
And offered up a glorious past to sweep away the dust.
The first one spoke in beer halls, 'mid the amber and the smoke,
The second through a glowing palm where digital furies woke.
One blamed the "hidden hand" that pulled the strings behind the gate,
The other finds a "deep" cabal to feed the hungry plate.
Both love the roar of many throats, the rhythmic, chanted name,
The warmth of being chosen, and the cooling of the shame.
They share a taste for grand designs, for stone and eagle’s wings,
The architecture of the ego that a massive presence brings.
They point a finger at the press that "poison in the well,”
And weave a private tapestry of truths they only tell.
One built a wall of concrete, one a wall of spoken breath,
But both relied on "otherness" to scare away The Death.
The people are the power, cries the voice beneath the lights,
While quietly the ink is changed to dim the former rights.
A uniform of stiffened wool, a tie of silken red,
Both leading toward a future where the nuance is quite dead.
It’s funny how the spiral turns, a cycle slick and fast,
How modern suits can mimic the ghosts of shadows past.
One liked his rallies orderly, the other liked them loud,
But both are merely mirrors for the longing of the crowd.
They offer up a scapegoat for the pockets that are thin,
And build a golden doorway that they won’t let others in.
The first one was a tragedy, a scar across the map,
The second is a satire caught within a neon trap.
But as the laughter rattles through the halls of history,
The similarities are plain for any soul to see:
It only takes a charismatic finger on the latch
To turn a field of dry resentment to a burning match.
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