The road to power is descending rather than ascending;
the man may feel as if he is stronger, but 'tis all a bluff.
An aesthetic beauty of calamity, beautiful disaster;
but power blinds the man like a hand over his eyes.
The man, the man who is blind, feels mighty and great;
but rotting silently within him is his humanity.
His honour left to decompose in the dust;
its bold brass dull next to the shining gold of greater responsibility.
The man who gains power protects it;
protects it like a young child weaned within him.
He will do anything, anything to keep it close to him;
all former morals forgotten.
But life is like a house of cards;
so precariously built but so fragile, causing his desperation.
He refuses to let anyone close to him, fading away slowly;
because one slight touch could bring it all down.