Psychoanalytical voter not voting, I ask you

Who is the man of our time when it is air that we are talking
Who is the father of time when it is power we are talking
Who knows what I mean when I say to you oh sing the song. Sing the praise of our racing ego-maniac who develops under pressure and new faith that is drowning in the pit of sanctity.
Let it out, let the cry be heard from he who cast the first stone, and throw it back as hard as you can as though you know exactly where it finds its place in history. That one single stone alone, cold, smooth.
It is the path of the stone that determined the process of time.
A time of generations confiscates the newness of the holy grail, that has been ridden of its use.
Show the light of day and go to it as though you were being lured with unbreakable tests
Set the trap of the jungle with the eye and see the memory tomorrow. Forever will be it yours if you believe the ways of the sword are as much to do with the sword as it is to do with the eye. Behind every eye is the depth of the oceans, the ability to swim them and a hunger to move them.
Behind my eye
I see this poem