The Clock of Power

If you are not early,

you are already forgotten.

The chamber doors close quietly,

not with a slam,

but with the hush of decisions made before you arrived.

Policy is written in margins long before the speeches are televised.

The ink dries while the crowd still gathers their signs.

By the time the chant rises, the deal is sealed.

If you are not early,

you are late to the table where compromise is carved like bread,

where silence is mistaken for consent,

where absence is a vote you never cast.

Movements are not born in daylight,

 they are whispered in kitchens,

drafted in basements,

plotted in the restless hours when the city sleeps.

By dawn, the scaffolding is already raised.

If you are not early,

you are late to history.

The parade has passed,

the ink has hardened,

the law has teeth.

So rise before the summons,

arrive before the summons,

speak before the silence becomes your name.

Because in politics,

the future is always early,

and the late are only echoes.