Tearing families in twain, pitching child against father?
Not I, for never did I know that power brings such greed.
Or perhaps it is not power, but something else.
Or perhaps it is power, so blinding, tainting what would else be perfect.
What does this thing, however named, do for us, give us?
Perchance insight, into ourselves, our inner being,
Or even that which causes us to be or not to be -
That which we are, or that which we could be.
But how long will this hold? How long until power,
That thing we cannot see, yet feel so clearly,
Infuses us with its being, molding us into its likeness?
Not long enough, but yet too long.
Perhaps there is something else, something better,
Something more soulful and lasting -
Something that contains everything at which power hints -
Something to be found in the heart.
Love, then, is everything that power is not?
So it would seem.
Who would have thought that power holds such secrets?
Not I, who felt its clutch and yielded.
Who would have thought that love could overthrow?
Not I, who knew that love itself was power.