Whether Iron men or offspring of Mars,
like carcinogens in the Emperor’s bowls,
they are despicably cavalier —
feeding blindly into their own finale
while expecting benevolence from time.
whose revolution guarantees surrender,
and whose indifference is absolute.
whose territory all men covet,
though they fail to scale its walls.
who gets so little credit,
but is the greatest Swiss of all.
How could this time favour them —
these holograms who doom their fellow men?
There is no earthly reason why,
so they crown him Chronus and place him in the sky,
for without him there would be no record —
no chronicling their vainglorious feats,
no raids and no retribution;
God knows there’d be no point!
There’d be no claims to victory
for she, the callous, also rolls with time,
veering from this squad to that
as casualties in the trenches climb.
The mortal currency oft paid to win her,
quickly stinks up the whole affair;
but by perfuming all tragedy
they allow regret without reform.
And with time divine,
they may prey but not repent,
regretting only Victory’s evanescence.
Unfortunately they never notice
as the strong confront mortality —
burning out like effigies of humanity.
But man is ever unaware;
So he’s been since the first dawn,
and so he saunters to the denouement.
A few will rage in later days
against brandishing power with hate;
They’ll wish to chasten it with care,
or questions about what’s fair.
And we might wish them luck,
but like varnish to rust’s unstable flakes,
such efforts are in vain,
for what’s fair to those who appear
cavalier, despite the horror on their heals;
and light, despite the darkness in their beings?
I’ve seen it many times.
These wily figures and their deeds endure
and through the ages are reborn,
Not unlike monuments each appears,
Some tower, some sprawl,
but all mark the horizon
like figments of night this day.
And pity an old lady,
for though I stare at this world,
all I see are endlessly looping lines.