Unfinished

They gather in shadow beyond the monuments, 
no longer chiseled names, but men again, 
haunted by what they see, 
each bearing the weight of his vision now worn. 

 

Washington stands first, 
his hands once steady on the reins of power, 
now clenched as he watches 
factions twist the unity he bled for,
a farewell ignored,
his warning a whisper beneath the roar.

 

Jefferson walks among the wires and screens,
half-proud, half-ashamed,
he sees his words engraved on school walls,
but the man he was
and the contradictions he lived
echo louder than his eloquence,
freedom for some,
chains for others –
still not resolved.

 

Hamilton paces,
delighted by the banks,
the market,
the surge of commerce,
but his eyes narrow
at greed mistaken for greatness,
debt wielded like chains,
ambition without virtue.

Madison sits with the Constitution open on his lap.
His fingers trace the parchment,
now frayed by loopholes and lobbying.
He wonders if balance was ever possible
if checks and compromises can still hold
when power no longer blushes.

Adams stares sternly.
His pride in law and order tested,
he sees opinion swallowed by outrage,
civility crushed beneath celebrity,
a republic of laws
now hostage to personality.

Franklin laughs,
then falls quiet.
No candle to lighten this tangle,
his pragmatism sees the flaws,
his hope searches for the spark.
He finds it not in politics
but in people –
small acts of repair,
a student questioning,
a neighbor feeding another,
a scientist unbought.

 

They speak little now,
each left to reckon
with what they built
and what it became –
not gods,
not saints,
just men,
and the future
still unfinished.