However huge, the room feels small.
One man in a suit, on the carpet,
takes one stance then another.
Dim lit wooden panel surrounding.
Claustrophobic, the old fellow
comes to the window, and the realization.
He turns and speaks, gesturing,
"whoever these trappings serve
we are the small players."

Out there

People dress for the season
cruel days hustling them along.
Vote with their feet every day
not every four years.
Their extra-curricular activity
makes of the old school a relic.
The realization is spreading
the streets are speaking
the spirit is becoming flesh.

The suits will keep up their parade
as sure as they'll be the small players.
Questions asked will be a trivial pursuit:
who was the worst, who had the best hat.
Our coalition holds in it's hand
no flag but a future long held back.
Dawn becomes the day the realization grows.
Look up, look ahead, and further.
There is no Tyrannosaurus shaking the ground
your hands may tend your garden.