He swaggered like a thunderclap,
all furnace‑breath and roar,
a Circus God of borrowed rage
who’d never been to war.
His hands drew frantic, looping signs,
his mouth a grinding wheel,
he barked at those who couldn’t bite
to prove that he was real.
But when a calm, unblinking gaze
from someone real and tall
met his .... the storm collapsed to mist,
his shadow seemed to crawl.
Before the ancient, quiet crown
he bowed with syruped grace,
a grin too wide, a laugh too sharp,
a tremor in his face.
Before the iron sovereign’s stare
he wilted like a leaf,
the bully’s mask slid off to show
a trembling underneath.
Yet back among the weaker sort
he puffed his chest once more,
a rooster on a borrowed throne,
a tyrant of the floor.
He spoke in crude, unvarnished lines,
in gestures broad and base,
a jester with a rancid tongue
and powder on his face.
His faithful .... fervent, dazzled, loud ....
mistook his noise for might,
they loved the way he kicked the dust
and cursed into the night.
But those who watched with colder eyes
saw something small and curled:
a man of mirrors, cracked and thin,
reflecting back a world
where swagger hides the shrinking heart,
where cruelty masks the fear,
where every shout’s a cursed plea
from someone standing near.
And so he roared, and ranted forth,
a paradox of skin ....
a hollow drum that thundered out
an emptiness within.
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18 May 2026