The Available Options....
He tightens the fist as the floorboards crack,
calls it “stability” while the future turns black.
The old model wheezes, but he rides it still,
a dead horse flogged by imperial will.
Reform is a mirror he refuses to face:
to loosen his grip is to forfeit his place.
So he buries the truth in a fortress of lies,
and calls the collapse “a strategic surprise.”
He purges the generals, he purges the priests,
he dines on obedience, starves out the beasts.
But power that fears is a power that shakes,
and the louder he roars, the more brittle it breaks.
So he summons the storm to drown out the drought,
whips up the crowd with a nationalist shout.
A flag in the fist is a dangerous drug,
it warms the cold throne, but it poisons the mug.
The empire stands still while the world moves apart;
he clutches the wheel with a panicked heart.
For the one thing he cannot command or decree
is the future itself .... or the cost to be Xi.
But Now at the Precipice....
He stands on a mountain of broken commands,
a god of decrees with blood in his arms.
The empire is cracking beneath his collage
but he snarls at the faultlines: “Obey or take charge.”
He strangles the markets to fatten the throne,
calls ruin “revival,” calls terror “his own.”
He cages the future in slogans and steel,
then blames the collapse on the world’s lack of zeal.
He purges the loyal, he purges the ******
he purges the ones who once carried his brand.
The generals bow, but their eyes stay cold ....
For a Court Martials fear is a Court growing old.
He lashes the nation to cover the rot,
whips up the storm to disguise what he’s not.
A titan in posters, a phantom in fact,
a ruler who trembles at shadows he’s backed.
He bellows of destiny, thunder and might,
but the louder he shouts, the more brittle his plight.
For the empire he forged in the furnace of “Xi”
is a kingdom of glass at the edge of the sea.
And the tide will not listen.
And the tide will not wait.
And the tide does not kneel
to a man fearing fate.
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7 February 2026