Power.
It is a common word. We use it everyday in multiple contexts, allowing it to slip from our tongues with the incoherent babble most of us consider speech. In such a context, hardly receiving notice, it lies in the corner -- save for when it is bandied about as a substitute for electricity or political might only to be quickly discarded once more as one would drop an overly rotten piece of fruit.
In the realm of linguistic beauty, power drew the short stick. It lacks the ability to glide from one's tongue, instead content to project itself out as a guttural expulsion of air. It twists in one's larynx, and finishes -- to an American, anyway -- in an almost lame fashion. Even written, it lacks the elegance and poise of some other words in the English language. Power is an ugly word.
Yet in some of its incarnations, Power defines something most men desire. Here, despite outer appearance, Power becomes beautiful. To some, it is wanted more than the trappings of the flesh. Such men toil their entire lives for but a glimpse, slavering at each turn with the hopes that it will be within their grasp. Most pass from this earth having never felt her embrace.
She stands above the world, bearing mute witness to the atrocities committed through love for her. She stands unflinching as men place their names before hers, put their identity to her machinations. And still she sees fit to gently caress some of those who come to court her, knowing full well that men who approach her willingly are not to be trusted with her gift. Yet it is not Power's place to judge, and even if it is she cares nothing for it, preferring to allow mortals to sort themselves out as she spins her web.
Even with all her ugliness and beauty, Power is a harsh mistress. She is exacting and cruel, happy to cut men down and complicate their petty plans whenever she deems fit. Yet she is not without mercy. She knows how seductive her touch is, that men will destroy everything they might hold dear for one fleeting moment with her. Thus, she grants men leave men to slough off the hardship of mortality by removing her hand from one's back, silencing their struggle forever.
If it seems as though I deify Power, it may be that I, too, worship her every breath. I desire her embrace, to feel the back of her hand stroke my cheek -- yet I fear it. History has shown what men marked by Power are capable of, and I often wonder if I am strong enough to feel her love and remain steadfast and true where so many others have failed. She haunts my every dream, tantalizing me with a brief glimpse of her sweet form, whispering, "You can be great." Such seduction, I am convinced, is not felt by all. But that is for another day.
Power has marked me for my desire of her, as she has marked so many others. Upon one marked as such she writes the truth, scribbling across one's eyes,"this is my suitor," so that all men will know our intent -- for the want of Power is, to some, an evil, and she would see us humbled for the arrogance we show in thinking we might dance with her.
Even so, I continue to lay roses at her doorstep.
