Don't fear the seductive might of mortal men.

Though their control is entrenched in ink and decree.

Though their comfortable lies make truth an exile.

Though their power seems beyond consequence.

 

Their strength is leashed by its own maintenance.

 

They must choose what justifies their necessity.

Yet every decision made confines the one after it.

Until those constraints govern their every option.

And what sustains them limits what they can survive.

 

Their strength is a wall of iron already rusting.

 

Power exhausts itself in its own endless defense.

Its every triumph demands another to remain one.

What they mistake for mastery is merely dependency.

 

Their strength is a shadow cast by the chair they sit on.