Sonnet #7
When Machiavelli calls his name he jumps
The animal compulsion drives his lust
for power. Brings the lowering of trust
from those he sought to love, but only trumped
The sad, the lonely lost receive the crust
DeSade is smiling up. His tortured thoughts
became both bread of Hell, and poisoned pot
when love of self became the social must
I rose to slay these enemies, I fought
against their ways, their thoughts – prevailing winds
of culture’s latent apathies and sins
but everywhere I turned I now was caught
In every face attacked, provoked, betrayed
My enemies a mirror – I was they
Phil Wyman 