In hallowed halls where whispers reign,
The dance of power spins its thread,
Through shadows cast by gilded frames,
A symphony of words unsaid.

Beneath the gaze of watchful eyes,
The puppeteers of fate conspire,
With every move, a nation sighs,
Entwined in webs of fierce desire.

The throne bestows its fleeting grace,
But power’s kiss is cold and stark,
As fleeting as a dream’s embrace,
It leaves behind a lasting mark.

In politics, the game is played,
By those who seek to mold the night,
Yet power’s price is often paid,
In shadows, far from truth and light.