Gods, you’re terrible with dice.
Playing, ignoring the price
it costs us all when you roll.
Don’t you know you’re gambling souls?
Your coin is hearts, not diamonds
to be split up for your funds.
You say you’ll share the winnings,
that in the end we’ll be kings.
But when we are merely pawns
forced to play your game in bonds,
our end sees us locked in stocks,
chained and sent to mine the blocks
for building the Capital
where you’ll sit to roll and hedge
your bets against any edge
we could ever hope to gain.
Gods, you’ve caused enough pain -
but we know your weighted die
still beats everything we try.

What is ink, if not blood spilling?
Splashed across the whiteness, staining,
making marks so proud, proclaiming
I was here, my voice is hiding;
buried under crimson letter
after letter, like a tea-r
coursing down upon the paper,
branded bright into forever.
Yes, I know the pen will bleed me -
Turn me inside out, a ghastly
Sight displayed, but somehow lovely.
Blacks and reds, I beg you, gently
curl and wind along my pages -
cut me deep into the ages.

Yawning ocean current swallows
hollow bottles crushed for blasting
back to shore exquisite sparkles.

Grace that bears our abject sorrows
costs a change forever lasting:
birth again as broken marvels.

The toothbrush starts, “Enameled crooked crescents fence
a cavern filled by slimy growths and walls that tense.”

The towel ruffles, “Four protrusions rife with joints;
the fifth a rounded stump with sev’ral gentle points.”

“Agreed. The knobs and knuckles wear a supple coat;”
the loofah huffs, “it’s gritty, slick, and prone to bloat.”

The eyebrow brush retorts, “It’s two retracting domes
that cause a row of strands to flutter when one roams.”

“While ‘domes’ is right, I venture ‘jiggle’ as more apt -
along with perky, tapered tips.” the brassiere flapped.

The ****** giggle, “‘Bouncy’ could suffice as well,
but don’t forget the dampened folds and prickly swell.”

“Absurd!” exclaims the hairbrush, “More like brittle twine;
Entangled, oily knots that never quite align.”

“Not twine, but thistles bushing out in sweeping arcs,”
the razor sighs, “from paper that too clearly marks.”

A glassy voice laments, “Not one of them’s correct -
how easy this would be, if you could all reflect.”