by Neil Siskind
With the fire and ire of a despot in power,
your strength denied the length of the ultimate hour.
You planted seeds filled with deeds for the loyal to sour,
and clear thinking, your secret disdain did devour- as the might of your flaws forced your judgment to cower.
Too much trust often thrust on those seemingly real-
in dark corners, concealed from adorers, are the places they steal.
Eventually, what’s expected to be, replaced by bravado and zeal,
with the consequence being how a preponderance of victims would feel.
Banished to Elba and trapped in a cell,
like a tyrant who’s captured and in isolation’s hell;
no, not you, my sweet, ‘tis how, in defeat, my broken spirit does dwell-
while you once seemed omnipotent, your character is impotent- insofar as I can tell.
Be gone, for the soreness of an angry mob comes,
as you violate trust and as your morality numbs,
in my eyes, what survives, are just your character’s crumbs;
far away seem the days you appeared as the sun- now eclipsed by your choices that can’t be undone.