There was a sense to him
Of a man once capable
Whose deep and organized intellect
Now descended into a tattered shambles
Of non sequitur and conspiracy theory
Consciousness corrupted by cognitive bias
Offering easy answers to difficult questions
His was the kind of disheveled mind
I expected to find huddled around an oil drum
Set alight for warmth in some subterranean refuge
Gathered there amongst others
Who had failed life as much as life had failed them
But, no
A driver came ’round to the passenger door
Opened it with crisp, deferent efficiency
And this sullen, morbid, dreadful mind emerged
Camouflaged by Italian designers
He passed through the gates of power
A useful idiot oiling wheels of industry
Constructed and maintained
By well educated minds
Which might know better
Were they not entirely consumed
By self interest
In him they’d found their man of the people
Someone who could speak to the masses
Motivate them against their own interests
A trait exploited fully by the engines of avarice
So that many there were
Huddled around burning drums
While the masters of the universe
Nestled in their dragon’s hoard
Pix to Words 