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Who can resist this bête noire?
He shines among us with confidence,
dripping an almost visible ectoplasm
scattered wide in his wake.
Everyone loves him in the moment
and when he leaves, tragedy flowers.
We make plans of resistance,
behind his back, out of his presence,
but the plots dissolve like sugar in hot coffee
when he comes around radiating.
Charisma is a glamour, an infection,
a powerful dumbfounding poison.
The carrier is immune,
the toxin weakening everyone else
the longer they are exposed to it.
Perhaps the time of assassination
draws near, a solemn solution.
We are weak and enthralled,
our eyes empty and cauled,
unable to muster strong will
or determined forward action.
So we admire ourselves to death,
brought low by gleeful glances,
props and promises of per diem wages.
The beast is within us tonight.
© 2009, php
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