ICON

 

There's a certain kind of human being,

That some are persuaded to believe

Would be capable of enormities

That most would best avoid, than achieve.

 

He (or she) loiters in plain sight,

Presentably, discretely, achieving;

Calling distantly from seats of power

For the reasonable, the fellow-feeling.

 

Fairly strict, quite affable; nondescript

In daily life. According to their friends

They're seen often holding in reserve

Whatever might benefit their private ends.

 

Most spend lives of drab obscurity,

Harming few while boring many;

Others climb the tree of life

While hatching plans they quickly bury

 

Deep within their soulless egos.

Adrift among automaton battalions

Their shadows live in interstices;

Deceitful, unreliable rapscallions.

 

Be wary the untutored actor,

The supporting chameleon role,

Swiveling avid eyes in maneuver,

Domination the only goal.

 

Usually of modest stature,

Around five-seven's the norm,

They gather in the credulous,

Dark creatures, stable in the swarm.

 

History abounds in their marks on the past,

These creatures of iconography;

Take time to question such curious travellers

Walking among us, manic and free.