To the upcoming resident of the “White” house:
Carte blanche in your hand, the muse of millions. When you spew hate, in return, the occupied spew back masterful thoughts, mulled over words, over mulberry wine, re-painted re-imaginings on the canvasses.
Trite words, just words, showing cracks, nay wounds, in the self’s patience levels, just like concocted terror levels. Yes, you know, the likes of: radical, terror, terrific Muslim, oops, terrorist Mozlem, etcetera, etcetera.
Let’s be fair now. Let’s proceed to the house that will be white again, and from its fiery pulpit, let’s call out terror in all its forms, from anarchists to would-be governments.
For they, too, are guilty of striking terror (let’s be clear: both international & home-grown, the lonesome gunmen, and the lost soul types) in the gentile fortress, that is the self’s heart.
The body, struck by the burden of these words, is getting itself aptly suitable, (in a suit and tie, mind you) for its funeral. Leaving the docile heart fending on its own, in its quest to search for its kind.