Ode To The Willing

I. The Vestibule of False Thrones

O Pam, O Kristi — dark the trade,
Both sold their souls, morals, betrayed.
Two offices, one rotting game,
Two women — one undying shame.

Not mercy drove you to the seat,
You filed the dying, called it neat,
You signed the papers, built the tomb,
And fed the darkness, sealed their doom.

You wore the cross around your neck,
You prayed in public, stacked the deck,
You swore to God and swore to law —
And fed the children to the maw.

O women crowned in mirrored lies,
Who worshiped only your own eyes,
The lobby cracks beneath your tread,
And shadows whisper of the dead.

The mothers, children, silent, small,
Are echoes in your gilded hall;
Yet you parade with frozen grace —
Whitewashed tombs. We see your face.

O woman shaped in suit and role,
Who mistook height for being whole,
No climb, however clean the goal,
Can outrun what composes soul.



II. The Circle of Unjust Decrees

O hear the rattle, thin in air,
Mistaken roar of rightful care;
A golden throne, a polished chair —
A child of power seated there.

Woe to the ones who rig the law,
Who write oppression without pause,
Who rob the poor of every right
And call that order, call that light.

The book you carry asked it plain —
What will you do when judgment's rain?
Where will you flee when you grow cold
And nothing remains but cringe and fold?

Above, the market spins its gold,
A mobile bright, a lure to hold;
It turns, distracts, obedient, cold —
While human stories go untold.

These blocks once built from lives now break,
Both stacked and tossed for order's sake;
A system's hand, a quiet quake,
That calls it balance, calls it stake.

You raise your hands, the gavel shakes,
Each verdict feeds the master's rake;
No heart, just darkness in the deed,
Just power-choking those who plead.

The innocent break, the system bends,
And each child's cry a means, not end;
Your gavel falls. Somewhere a name
Is crossed from every list you claimed.



III. The Circle of Stolen Breath

O women, you who held the door,
You heard the pleading from the floor;
A single turn, a word, a stand —
And lives would shift beneath your hand.

Yet something colder took its place,
A practiced calm, a careful face;
You turned aside, you chose the line
Where power served itself, not spine.

The children reached with quiet eyes,
Too young to cloak their need in lies;
The women spoke in fractured breath,
Of daily harm, of living death.

Here mothers kneel, the children die,
Their lives compressed beneath your eye;
You measure screams as ledgered gain,
And smirk while others taste the pain.

Your laughter slides on marble veins,
Your ice-cold smile forgets the chains;
You turn away, as if the cost
Were paper thin — the souls not lost.

Your stillness was not strength but freeze,
A practiced art of moral ease.
Cold face. No flinch. The daily deed.
Just torture dressed as law and creed.

You froze the parents, stilled their dread,
You called that law and moved ahead.
You kept the sick too scared to plead,
You called that order, called that creed.

You caught a child of five and held —
You smiled while every family fell.
Whoever harms one of these small —
Better the millstone. Better drowned.

Better the sea swallow you whole
Than stand where God has marked the ground.



IV. The Circle of the Whitewashed Tomb

O woman crowned in crafted guise,
Who stitched your world from polished lies,
Each word a thread, each glance a seam —
You dressed your ruin up as dream.

You learned the tilt of truth just so,
To let a softer version show,
Where edges blurred and facts would bend
To serve the master in the end.

Like whitewashed tombs you gleam and shine,
You beautiful, corrupt design,
Full of dead men's bones within —
Outward righteous. Inward sin.

You moved through rooms with poised control,
A thousand scripts to guard the role,
You built a house of painted air
And climbed a fake and golden stair.

You kept the truth beneath the floor,
A ghost behind a locked-up door.
The mirror was your greatest foe —
For there the rot would start to show.

Beneath the rouge and clever grace,
A stranger lived inside your face.
Not blood, but numbers fed your throne,
Not grief, but metrics you could own.

Behind the house of laws you built,
Your husband dressed in pink and gilt —
The very flesh you called a sin,
He wore it nightly. You looked in.

You banned the drag, you banned the dress,
You called it God, you called it blessed —
While in your home the mirror cracked
And showed the life you'd led and lacked.

Woe to you who call evil good
And light the dark as if you should,
Who swap the bitter for the sweet —
The book you carried called you cheat.



V. The Circle of Brass and Scales

Behold the Lady, scales unbound,
Your blindfold shed upon the ground;
No sacred cloth, no truth profound —
A child's game lost, then newly found.

The blindfold ripped, the scales now swing,
Brass lashes at each suffering;
No measure kept, no justice found,
The guilty feast while children drown.

Your hands, manicured, strike with glee,
A playground flail of tyranny;
The victims stacked, like blocks, like bones,
Their lives compressed beneath your thrones.

The walls drip ink, the floors convulse,
All truth succumbs to your impulse;
No plea can reach your frozen face,
No mercy lived in your disgrace.

You swore you had them on your desk —
Then swallowed truth in one burlesque.
You held the names of Epstein's dead,
You held them up, then turned instead —

You swallowed the flame that you had lit.
The list. The lie. The counterfeit.
Your Botox grin, your diamond stare,
Could strip the air of mercy bare;

A soul that bartered, spent, and lost —
The cross you wore could not pay cost.
What will you do on reckoning's eve,
When harm comes back that you did weave?

To whom will you run, where leave your hoard?
Nothing remains. Not anymore.



VI. The Circle of Predators' Play

You gutted every civil right,
You fired the lawyers in the night,
You swore you had the names in hand,
Then swallowed every last demand.

The carousel spins faster, wrong,
The horses twist, metallic, strong;
Each predator disguised in gold,
Each note of calliope controlled.

You rode for cameras, not the dead,
The bodies fell, you rode ahead.
Mount Rushmore crumbling at your back —
Dead Americans. Own the act.

The hat a prop. The boots a prop.
The children props. You would not stop.
You lined the detained, cold and mean,
And posed before their wretched scene.

Your Rolex shone at Cecot's gate,
While men dissolved to unknown fate.
Not hidden cruelty — lit and staged,
With cameras rolling, press engaged,

You preened before the watching eye —
Cruelty performed beneath the sky.
Alex Pretti healed the sick and burned —
You named him terrorist. Unlearned.

You said it twice. You held that line.
You called the nurse the enemy's sign.
Renée Good was somebody's heart —
You made her death a press depart.

Marimar Martinez, five shots deep,
While sitting still — a price too steep.
The agents bragged. The agents joked.
You smiled — the camera spoke.

You said domestic terrorist —
The easiest name to file and twist.
Woe to you through whom these things come —
Better unborn, better struck dumb,

Better the sea, the stone, the weight
Than carry what you carry. Wait.
Their angels always see His face.
And you are seen. There is no place.



VII. The Circle of the Stone Face

O women, you will never grasp
The weight of shame that binds, that clasps;
A crown of guilt unseen, unearned —
The reckoning that time has churned.

No law can spare, no gold can hide
The ghosts of all you cast aside;
The innocence you crushed and broke
Now counts in silence every stroke.

You pulled the floor from where they'd stand,
You shut the door with practiced hand;
You fired the lawyers, swept it neat —
They called it ruin. Called defeat.

You had the power — to shield, to save.
You chose instead the colder grave.
You stood with harm and called it right
While they were tortured every night —

Stone face. No flinch. No human sound.
Just torture — daily — cold — profound.
The Russian soldiers knew this face —
They knew their masters wore your grace.

That is your face. That is your name.
The stone face women — seal your shame.
Serpents, brood of vipers, hear —
Your Bible named your hell from here.

You travel land and sea to win
One convert — make them twice the sin.


VIII. The Circle of the Cross Still Warm

The mirrors shatter, the mobiles fall,
The scales reverse, the shadows call;
The children rise, the mothers wail,
The ledger tips — the victims prevail.

No mask, no Botox, no robed decree
Can bend the truth that comes to be;
The court you made, infernal, stark,
Now burns with your own ignited mark.

You did not sell something unnamed.
You sold Alex Pretti.
You sold Renée Good.
You sold Marimar bleeding in her car.
You sold the child of five in the cage.
You sold the names the dead girl carried —

The list you swore was on your desk
That was never on your desk.

You sold the lawyers who believed
The law was real.
You sold them for a title on a door.
You sold them for a press release
You signed smiling —

The cross still warm against your chest.

Not Faust's fire. No sulfur. No ceremony.
A conference room.
Coffee going cold on a styrofoam cup.

A donor badge.
A handshake.
A yes.

The gross part is not the deal.
The gross part is the cross.
The gross part is that you bowed your head

That same Sunday
And called yourself forgiven

While Alex Pretti's mother held his shirt
Against the light
And chose what he would be buried in.

You would do it again.

Same shoes.
Same smile.
Same cross.
Same cold ground.
Same five shots.
Same filed grief.

Women in power
Is not the same as
Power for women.

One held the scales.
One held the border.
Both held the people down.
Both wore the cross.



IX. The Circle of Eternal Reckoning

They were not fired for the dead.
They were fired for the optics.
The children did not get them fired.
The bodies did not get them fired.

Alex Pretti bleeding on cold ground
Did not get them fired.
The child of five in the cage
Did not get them fired.

The boss got embarrassed.
And then they were gone.
What removes a woman like this
Is not the harm she did —

But the harm she did to him.
Two women. Two offices. One use.
When the use was up —
So were they.

They served until they didn't serve him.
The people were never the point.

Here stands your final throne of shame,
No gilded rule, no whispered name;
The underworld itself will weigh
The ruin sown in your dark play.

The shame runs deep, the horror raw,
Beyond the reach of any law;
And as you kneel in mirrored dread
You meet the life you chose to shred.

O women who devoured the light,
Who hid in law, who thrived on bite —
The innocent rise from where they fell
And name you at the mouth of hell.

No heaven shields, no gold redeems,
No power lasts beyond your schemes;
The echoes hold you, turn the wheel,
Until the wound becomes the seal.

Not ruin loud, not justice grand —
But God himself, a steady hand,
Will sit you down in what you fled:
The cross still warm. The voiceless dead.

No praise will come, no crowd defend,
No polished ally at the end —
Just you, unmasked, with what you did,
The name of every child you hid,

The book still open to the page
That named you serpents. Named your age.

While Alex Pretti's mother holds his shirt
Against the light — and folds.

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