Fractured light gleams off the walls
Reflecting off the Rolex strewn casually across his immaculate desk
Its platinum plating smirking at the watchers
From under the diamond rock.
He wanders through the halls
Stares at the struggles of those below him
Through the translucent walls.
Reaches out a hand
But can never touch the world
Obscured by the diamond windows
That are his prison.
Tilted, rounded walls make caricatures
Of lives, of livelihoods, of people
Like funhouse mirrors in the playground
Of life.
He winds his way through the streets
Of those outside his cell.
Staring through the milky panels
That bar him from his subjects.
Though he can never touch, never truly see
It is he who holds the power
above the watchers below.
WIP
