DEAD MAN WALKING

 As Mr. Trump carries on with his last presidential breath whining as only he can about Shakespearean injustices, the stabs in the back, the democracy that buckled but refused to break, we are left to listen one last time to fictions masquerading in an alternate universe as immutable truths.

We are the corrupt ones. We are the ones manipulating the system. We lie, cheat and steal our every waking hour. And we have purloined his throne.

His minions will do his bidding, pleading (in multiple senses) his cause, attempting to convince those who are now called upon to judge us that it is we who cannot be trusted. That there has been a conspiracy, the size of which is beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.

It would be sad in a different world, a saner world, one not beset with the terrible damage left in this man's wake. It would be sad if he had ever earned our esteem, or was ever worthy of our praise. It would be sad if there had been even a moment's recognition of the solemn responsibility of the task he swore to undertake. But this is not sad, for Donald Trump has not caused us anything but pain, has not treated us with anything but disrespect, has not handled his office with even a scintilla of the care it mandates.

So let him take one final stab at convincing us that he is not the perpetrator of unspeakable crimes but its victim, carrying with him the certain knowledge of the verdict that awaits at journey's end.

For Donald Trump is now but a dead man walking