Those who aspire
to grab the hilt of a sword
that seldomly swerves
The neck of victims to sever.
Just like a prismatic cockerel,
Runs around in circles
Threatening every male,
Potential contender,
That dared
To come near,
To limerence and stir,
The herd of birds,
The old cockerel felt entitled to steer.
Little did it know
The young rooster
Is equipped with a sharper spur
That cuts through the geriatric’s feathers,
Its shanks to clobber.
Those who claim
the helm of a reign
The seat of power,
The golden diadem
The cassock gown to wear
Hoping they will last forever
Enjoying the sip of mellifluous liquor,
The fame of biblical Aron;
Miserably fail to cognise
They too are cut from the same clothe,
Of those they despise
That they set out to demise.
Nature is cruel, full of surprises
The omnipotents at times
Even made of inferior threads,
Little do they know about,
That they disintegrate quicker than thought
Faster than the tattered down and out.
No amount of gold,
piles of armaments
Umpteen paid cohorts
Prescribed panacea elixirs
Would come to rescue their degringolade fate,
From a downhill fall,
Pulverised to dust.
No amount of nisus:
Prosopopiea flackery,
Hoopla skulduggeries
Could halt the process.
The image is poised for long to stay
But only lasts a few days,
Before it fades away.
Just like a lyssa laden dog
From street to street that shogs
Chased and slogged.
And its rizzar carcass
Laced with poison
No Limacine,
Nor a vermin,
Would want to fletcherize and swallow
For fear of a rabies laying low,
Between the furrow,
Or embedded in the marrow.
May deliver a fatal blow.
Yared Huluf