The Gilded Throne

I drove through a dust-bitten stretch of America where the billboards flicker and sag,
Old campaign signs bleach under decades of sunlight, rusted through at the jag.
And I saw a man in a service station hat, sipping coffee thick as mud and twice as burnt,
Said, “You headed past the Strip Mall Mausoleum? That’s where he used to rant and blurt.”

I didn’t know what he meant, so he waved toward a crumbled steel façade,
“Once was a golden tower here, now it’s just memory soaked in pomade.”
I parked by a pile of marble that had cracked like a porcelain plate,
Twisted letters in gaudy gold spelled “TRU” and nothing past that fate.

There were boots in the lobby, military shine, but no legs to fill their place,
Just pigeons crapping on velvet ropes and silence empty like a case.
A hand, sculpted once in bronze, stuck out of weeds with two fingers up,
Half peace, half something else, maybe asking for one last cup.

The sky was clear but tired, and the wind had a dry, sarcastic tone,
Like it had seen empires come and fall, and was ready to move on alone.
And there in the centre, cracked but still absurdly huge in size,
A bust stared up from the dirt with bleached-out teeth and empty eyes.

You could tell it once had grandeur, a likeness moulded with care and gold,
A jaw clenched like it could grind history, a gaze that aimed to control.
On a plaque, nearly covered in dust and lichen that time had sown,
Were carved the words in faded caps:

“I BUILT THE WALL. I STOOD ALONE.
I OWNED THE SKY, THE TOWER, THE THRONE.
I SPOKE, AND NATIONS TREMBLED TO OBEY.
I MADE AMERICA MINE, THEN WALKED AWAY.”

Nothing else remained but the bones of ambition in an empty field,
A golf cart rusting in the sand, secrets the documents never revealed.
No crowds now to chant or cheer, just shadows stretched across the tar,
No cameras, no spotlights, only the truth of who we really are.

There were echoes in the escalators that once gleamed with mirrored pride,
Now shattered glass and lolly wrappers where the future came to slide.
A voice recording still clicked on from a buried loudspeaker in loops,
But the words were scrambled, barely more than babbling corporate whoops.

This was a kingdom built on ratings, retweets, and marble gold veneers,
All glitter and no gospel, puffed up to smother fear.
For a while, the stage held firm, and the crowd drank every word and wink,
But towers built on slogans tend to crumble faster than you think.

The hand of time does not applaud; it sweeps, it scrapes, it strips,
No matter how high your name is hung, the ladder always slips.
And here, in this desert of forgotten chants and plastic flags half-torn,
Lies the truth beneath the hair and heat: even loud gods get reborn…

… as relics, as memes, as lessons half-taught in a system half-awake,
With monuments that rot like statues built from icing on a cake.
One man, he told me, tried to paint the world in his reflection’s glow,
But the mirror broke and left behind only what the world should know:

That power never lasts in hands that clench too tight or build on fear,
That every chant will fade to hush, and every empire disappears.
I asked a local teen what this place was, she shrugged and said, “Some guy.
My grandpa said he shouted stuff. He built a thing. He lied.”

The irony was hard and dry, like soda left uncapped and flat,
That something built so loud and large could end up only that.
A whisper. A ruin. A laugh without a joke. A tie too wide to wear.
A ghost in a suit of confidence, puffed up with dollar air.

And yet, I felt a pang of awe, not for the man but for the fall,
How ego dressed in diamonds can still answer nature’s call.
The desert didn’t flinch. The weeds didn’t know his name.
They climbed the broken statues just the same.

This is what he left: a crater where applause once fanned the flame,
A gilded mask, a fossil stamped with fame.
And maybe that’s the lesson buried under pride and fake gold leaf,
That power built on spectacle will always rot beneath belief.

I saw a bird nest in a MAGA hat that crowned the tilted dome,
A small thing claiming shelter in a place once called a throne.
The irony was thick as cream, the stage now held the script,
Of how even titans with a Twitter grip can find the power slipped.

A businessperson, a brand, a bluff dressed up in empire tone,
Now dust, now glass, now left alone.
A voice that claimed eternity in one last perfect tweet,
Now swallowed by the silence of his own defeat.

There’s something deeply honest in how this place forgets,
It doesn’t matter how you posed, or how much gold you get.
The wind keeps blowing. The wires rust. The marble eats the rain.
No legacy survives that feeds on fear or profits from disdain.

And so I left the ruin there, a caution blinking in the sun,
Of what becomes of kingdoms built on ratings and a gun.
No judge, no gavel, no final trial, just erosion’s soft command,
That even gods of television fade into the sand.

And still that hand remains, two fingers frozen in the air,
Half peace, half plea, half dare.
And somewhere far, a screen still loops the speeches, edits tight,
But no one’s watching now, they’ve turned off the light.

 

Dear reader, we need your support

Independent sites such as The AIMN provide a platform for public interest journalists. From its humble beginning in January 2013, The AIMN has grown into one of the most trusted and popular independent media organisations.

One of the reasons we have succeeded has been due to the support we receive from our readers through their financial contributions.

With increasing costs to maintain The AIMN, we need this continued support.

Your donation – large or small – to help with the running costs of this site will be greatly appreciated.

You can donate through PayPal or credit card via the button below, or donate via bank transfer: BSB: 062500; A/c no: 10495969