Icy Heights of the White House: A Poem
Few political hot heads have made it in their life
only to regret each and every treacherous step
through that heartless cold of lies and strife
now secretly just an ordeal and mishap.
Lonely at that icy top of the world
hated by rivals and envied by snobs
never at peace and constantly hurled
with nothing to live for but endless jobs.
Like a mirage in a white desert of ice
pop up illusions of grandeur and power
with Lady Fortune in person rolling the dice
one brick at a time for their freezing ivory tower.
Then sooner or later comes the time
for nostalgic look down those many hills
skin feeling a size tight, covered with grime
with nothing around that could look like thrills.
Sadness creeps in begging for new meanings
those valleys below calling with each sigh
looking so much more like true winnings
making of all power a regrettable lie.