David Hurtado         Wordsmith

Do not fear the might of mortal men,

whose horns burn brighter than halos.

Blinded by hubris mistaken for brilliance,

their hour of triumph will remain just so.

 

They mistake it for an everlasting sunrise,

before it's crushed beneath the setting sun.

History remembers only what they tore down,

however grand their monuments towered

 

But be weary of their hollow, hungering hearts,

for no sin can sate those yawning caverns.

They, who strip hope from stricken hands,

whisper lies sweeter than honeyed silver.

 

Their promised land is a sunless space, 

where even shadows wither and die.

Where death forgets to be a mercy,

never to be found by those who wait.

​

Always, power promises to be temporary,

gone before it need be questioned.

Until it reaches like rot into all it can

and ruin becomes what remains.