In Aid of Persecution

The gavel echoes, a hollow wooden sound, a stage set for a truth yet to be found. Or buried deep beneath the practiced phrase, "In aid of legislation," a theatrical haze. The cameras flash, a hungry blinking eye, consuming drama as the moments fly. Each carefully crafted question, a barbed dart, aimed not at answers but at tearing hearts. The witness sits, a figure stark and small, beneath the weight of scrutiny's cruel thrall. Their words dissected, twisted, rearranged, a narrative spun where innocence is estranged. The politicians posture righteous and grand, their voices booming across the listening land. A performance staged for public's fleeting gaze, while shadows lengthen in bureaucratic maze. The documents pile, a mountain cold and stark, each page a weapon in the gathering dark. "Transparency," they cry with practiced ease, while hidden agendas whisper through the breeze. The truth, a phantom elusive and unseen, lost in the rhetoric, the grand political scene. A theater of power where justice takes a bow, and legislation's guise conceals the hollow vow. The echoes fade, the cameras cease to gleam, another spectacle, a broken fading dream. And we, the audience, left to wonder why, the search for answers leaves only a hollow sigh. ©bfa032725