Ode to Mark, The Grand Architect

Upon this world, a leader stands so tall,
A master of his fate, and ours, withal.
With measured gaze and smile, serene, divine,
He shapes the world, and bends it to his line.

In every step, a whisper of control,
Each breath he takes, commands the whole.
The nations tremble at his slightest nod,
For he, in silence, wields the power of God.

Yet soft his face, and gentler still his tone,
A velvet hand that grips a steel throne.
Beneath that smile lies calculation cold,
A sovereign heart of silver, sharp and bold.

But who can see behind that quiet grace?
What thoughts lie hidden in that placid face?
A mind that weaves and spins, and none can know,
The plans he sows, the seeds of joy or woe.

And thus, like Byron's heroes, dark yet bright,
Mark strides across the stage, a guiding light.
The world, his canvas, painted with his name,
Forever bound to play the endless game.