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Poem
Its effects are all around us,
this great addiction we can’t break,
the old human lust for power,
and we all know it’s a mistake.

I’ve even seen ‘Rest in Power’
said for activists who have died,
so that even in the next world
they face the toils of this life...

No peace, no hope, nothing greater
then this depraved urge to control,
a drug that demands everything,
and always takes a heavy toll.

The curious thing about it
is that it’s something we all need,
power over your own life is
the definition of being free.

If we could somehow end it there,
on our own life, not another’s,
then all mankind would be just fine,
and not a threat to its brothers.

Some people can resist its pull,
and I have to say they are blessed,
most others are not big problems,
since they simply don’t have access.

But there’s always a sketchy few
who do not stop until it’s theirs,
and I would almost pity them
if they didn’t cause such despair.

I say pity because inside,
once lust for power gets to work,
you’re slowly stripped of all that’s great,
bit by bit, you won’t notice the hurt.

The morals are the first to go,
after all, how can they hold up
against the crisis of the now,
they soon become just so much fluff.

And then you grow to resent them,
start to see them as a restraint,
you think of what you could get done
if people had no ‘moral taint.’

You start to demonize the good,
since they reflect badly on you,
even try to alter people’s minds
to be free of such points of view.

Before you know it your own soul
has simply vanished into dust,
until you’re simply animal,
and in power only you trust.

At this point, high up on your perch,
you can no longer understand
why most folks don't get ‘how things are,’
you see them as a lesser man.

Once this point is reached, they’re objects,
to be moved around or ignored,
and with all real connection gone,
you can just kill them by the score.

The worst crimes that are possible,
and you won’t even lose much sleep,
all because you worshiped power
and let its poison sink too deep.

There also is the personal,
The things you care for and enjoy,
that drain away until they become
remnants that can only annoy.

What use were all of those feelings
if they don’t serve your great desire?
The addiction doesn’t like to share,
it demands you feed its fire.

Besides, those very past times must
be political in some way,
turned into some reflection of
what you believe and what you say...

CONCLUDES IN PART II.
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