Two fraternal finger servants  
Heading for two different yet identical realms—  
One to the pants,  
One to the booth,  
To serve two ungratified masters.  

In the pants,  
The finger scratches the master’s itchy *****,  
Scooping grime for the traitor’s feast.  
He snorts his ***** finger in euphoria,  
Indulging in the filth,  
Yet his soul recoils, a silent cry  
Against the grime he cannot deny.  

At the booth,  
The other plunges into indelible ink,  
Navigating a murky future  
Inscribed on a cursed parchment.  
It surfaces,  
Stamping false hope on the ballot.  
A sigh escapes, a ghost of regret,  
For promises it cannot forget.  
Later, the master whispers, “change is here.”  

Which finger is safe?  
The one in filth?  
The one in dark ink?  
Which serves the master honestly?  
Are they both slaves to deceit?  

In one, the finger delves to gratify.  
In the other, it plunges to gratify.  
Both serve, both spoil—  
One in filth, one in ink.  
Both bound, both sink.

Versed in the art of silence and independence,
he quietly hosts the soul gnawing parasites
which devour him from within
only leaving crumbs of his being.

He is broken.
He is heavy with multitudes of untold tales,
so he seeks Caesarian experts
to deliver him from the burdens.
"Be strong, be a man" they say,
and he goes.

At home,
the hanging clothes flutter in excitement.
They whisper to him,
"Come, join us on the line to paradise."