Cycle... Poem by RIC BASTASA

those who are not there yet
claim they will not, and those who are there sitting
become disfigured faces,
either they are ousted or
they die, but some are lucky to
step down the plain
and live on their
houses again,

then they, whom we look up to,
trust and toss,
sit the throne but for a time
become the witches of their
own time,

i begin to write: all of them are the same
and all shall be corrupted by the same system
it will only take a very short time
before we can even forget.