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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.

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