Oh to owe what isn’t owned; glorifying riches at hand to hold
— not for long. Skeletons, carcases, dust to dust, bones grow cold
as they get old; as the foundations you place your wealth on –
grow hollow once more.

As a man with absolutely nothing, has all the space in the world, to feel
they don’t belong. A man with everything counts up the credits they’re
owed, alas counting up all of the funds, to be counting down their days.

The grounds we walk on are all so slippery- constantly sliding money for
food. Working all of your life; filling up twenty-four hour slots gambling
all that one has at hand, end to end for ends meet.

We cannot hold onto time any longer then we try to hold onto money;
trying to weather through it all - it’s only easier when the weather's fine,
As hard times slip under the door, and the key to it refuses to thaw.

Still the poverty trap has steel jaws that snap, the trap of chasing money
as an escape- rises ourselves as serpents, curved to swallow our own tail.

                                  Our own tragedy of ssss…success.