John Prophet

Brass Knuckles

 

Down through the millennia
grand armies
marched across plains of
destruction.
Battle cries,
forever lost in the ether.
Spilt blood,
absorb and recycled.

Names of the warriors
forever lost,
unknown to the future.
Civilizations
have come
and gone,
some never being known
to modernity.

Important men,
striding the halls of power,
controlling all they see.
Self impressed with their prowess.

Brass knuckled men,
climbing over and knocking down others,
any who got in their way.
Power
at all cost.
Men, gnawing
their way to the present,
leaving blood
and destruction in their wake.

Where do such men go from here?

How will their aggressive
tendencies
translate in the world
of hyper-technology?
Will it propel them to the stars,
or blast them into oblivion?

It’s the toss of a coin I think.