Money
Sets us free
To another
Cage of labyrinths,
Hung with rusted chandeliers

And

Verbose
Routines of revelry
With inmates that look just
Like us, sound just like us, and when
They don't, we work harder, stab deeper, hurt

More

To get
To the next tier;
To the next go.

Money,
Money
Is and always will be
A mechanism
Of control
And of procrastination
Of the internal work
Capitalism
And
Consumerism

Doesn't want you to pay attention to.
Doesn't want you to hear about.
Doesn't want you to know.

To know is to know the know.

Yet, here I am
Wrapped in a blanket
Fearful of the
Power getting cut off
As three roars of heat purr
12 years before the end of the world

Writing to write
But also knowing to write
Is to seek that monetary

Fix

To perhaps one day write
With money's knock -

Money's interruption.

I see the dead glaze over my friends eyes
I taste the ash in their voice
As they speak of the future, as if that will be them
I hear their words
And I cry between their sips of beer or cocktail or soda
Silent desperate wisps
Of the reality of work
That is being done for that possible spot

Beneath the sun.

Where is our Sun?
Who is our God?
What security does life give
When all of man mans illusions
Are revealed as temporary alleviations
To trauma only they, I, we
Can face and solve?

My spirit is ours
And ours is I

And yet here I sit,
Underneath a warm blanket,
Gifted to me by a friend,
Alone,

At a loss to express this
To any physical action

But on the page.