The Throne's Shadow Poem by ashok jadhav

Power sits in silence, cold and patient,
Its shape unbroken by the cries it bends.
The hand that reaches for the gilded crown
Becomes the hand that twists the law to suit.
Corruption creeps in whispers, soft and slow,
Turning loyalty to leverage, truth to dust.
The powerful speak in polished certainty,
Yet every word conceals another aim.
They build their towers higher than the rest,
While those below bear weight they cannot name.
And still the city hums as if unaware,
Its pulse measured by fear and quiet hope.
Each compromise leaves stain upon the soul,
Yet none can halt the hunger that drives on.
The throne consumes, and all who grasp its height
Become both master and prisoner of their own desire.