GOLD, GOLD, GOLD

The Gilded Collapse of a Hollow King

Gold, gold, gold.

So much gold it blinds the poor before it feeds them.

So much gold it rattles in the throat of the empire,

choking on its own reflection.

This isn’t wealth.

It’s costume.

It’s glitter in the cracks of a collapsing ceiling,

a funeral mask for a dying house.

He came draped in it.

Trump.

The man with a name heavy as a headstone,

plated in fake gold leaf.

The last Boomer pharaoh, building towers to himself,

lined in mirrors, filled with ghosts.

A realtor of illusion,

selling America back to itself—

at markup.

Gold chairs.

Gold toilets.

Gold lettering that turns black in the rain.

A kingdom made of plating,

not power.

Shine, not substance.

He never built—he bought, and he branded, and he borrowed,

and he believed that was the same as greatness.

Gold as god.

Gold as gospel.

The Boomers bowed to it.

He just screamed it louder.

This was always the dream, wasn’t it?

Not justice. Not equality.

But to stand at the top of the hill, draped in gold,

and watch others crawl for scraps.

And now he stands,

gilded and grinning,

while the floor beneath him buckles.

Gold is the lie that still works.

Because the people he sells it to

don’t want truth.

They want access.

They want a slice of the throne,

a selfie near the chandelier,

a taste of that soft, cruel decadence.

The gold promises they’re not the servants.

It says, You’re royalty too.

Even when they clean the marble with their tongues.

But here’s the rot:

Gold peels.

Gold chips.

Gold rusts when it's fake.

And underneath?

It’s drywall.

Mold.

Debt.

We are living in the final showroom.

The end of empire has a lobby.

And the music is loud, and the curtains are silk,

and the host is selling tickets for a train that already left.

He is the gold-plated ghost of a nation that never looked in the mirror.

And now the mirror is cracking.

Gold, gold, gold.

It was never a treasure.

It was a trap.

And he made us all walk into it smiling.