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Like the Thunderdome, the mountain rages above
bureaucratically to rival Olympus Mons
with it’s polished granite
hiding steel cubes within.

The mob cries animated satisfaction
snickered from incarcerated victims.

Sure, some almost belong there,
the criminals with short vision and arms
and the long armed ones with tin badges and skeleton keys.

“Two men enter, one man leaves.”
Yet outside, two before the vaulted edifice,
this bank of force, unrolling its magic parchment
of powerfully independent words,
shallow as a vain Glory field.
“Speak, friend, and enter.”

“Friend,” one speaks.

The door creaks open
to the well-toned,
good-intentioned contradiction.

Sometime after sorrow,
the other leaves his last salute :

“Goodbye, comrade.”