Nobody In The World Bends To Your Threats Poem by Mohammad Younus

Nobody in the world bends to your threats,
Trumpo—spinning top, whirling in vain,
a dizzy dance of bluster and bluff,
driven by hands unseen, yet claiming control.

You spin, a spectacle of noise and glare,
a carnival act, all sound and fury,
yet hollow at the core,
a vessel of echoes, repeating yourself
until the words lose meaning,
until the crowd grows weary.

But I do fear, in all your reckless flight,
you might stumble,
lose your step,
plummet from the very plane
you swore to command.

For the higher you rise, the harder the fall,
and the ground below is unforgiving.
Your stage, so carefully constructed,
may crack beneath the weight of your own making.

And what then, Trumpo, when the spinning stops?
When the applause fades,
and the hands that once propelled you
withdraw into shadow?

Will you stand, unsteady,
gazing at the wreckage of your own design,
or will you simply spin again,
blind to the chaos left in your wake?