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Our PDR Posse member, Thomas Czarnik submitted a new poem for our enjoyment in these difficult times that as usual is prescient.
The Tyrant by Thomas Czarnik (03/31/2022)
He sits alone at one end of a long long table
Crosses his manicured fingers
and with bright blue eyes (cold though and dead)
Stares down at generals quivering in their seats,
decorated with dread.
He, head-bowed, shoulders in perpetual shrug
Glances at nearby aides standing stiff, faces lead,
tongues frozen from mumbling yes (as so they should) --
He, motionless until the silence is ready to explode,
the Master of Fate, soft hands and soulless Head of State,
A smiling cobra, unblinking while the world waits shell-shocked and numb,
Sticks a red pin into the map
and a million people fall dead
beneath his thumb.
