Brass Knuckles Poem by John Prophet

Down through the millennia

grand armies have

marched across

plains of destruction.

Battle cries

forever lost in the ether,

spilt blood

absorb and recycled.

Names of the warriors

forever lost, unknown to the future.

Civilizations

have come and gone,

some never being known

to modernity.

Important men

striding the halls of power,

controlling all they see.

Self impressed with their prowess.

Brass knuckled men climbing

over and knocking down

others, any who got in their way,

power at all cost.

Men gnawing

their way to the present,

leaving blood and destruction

in their wake.

Where do such men

go from here?

How will their aggressive

tendencies

translate in the world

of hyper-technology?
Will it propel them to the stars,

or blast them into oblivion?

It's the toss of a coin I think.