29. Atlas unmoved

Ponderous deliberation, aging men,
sedate, but playful in conserving the game,
cuddling their spoilt little words.

Polished but weary from endless
tugs of war, they piffle the ripples,
still waters of balanced power.

Astride their horses, unaware
that the merry go round has come
to a halt, the power turned off.

The committee is a haven, a lull,
away from the bother, of wife
and pushy young people still intent

on moving the world, still hunting to kill
riding the drive, to prove their skill,
the ritual pride of manhood unleashed.

The old dogs say little, but enough to show
their status and consummate skill, parading the
shine of a burnished view, guarding their honour.

Sort out the lighter weapons, 
rig the regalia, armour cliché,
and if by some mishap it does get rough,

they withdraw to the never failing stratagem
of further consultation, a select committee.
Atlas did not move either while he carried the world.

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