Is a place
On a mantlepiece.
It's too high to reach there

When money
As plentiful as nothing
Turns bread into anger

And spits it out
Through the vacuum
As sharp as a pointed finger.

The playbook
Is as old as writing -
Cleverly tailored for each.

Its silvery words,
Poetry, spiritual, divisive,
Flow like water

Over hot oil,
Under cold feet, in veins
Searching for some answer.

And our perfect day
Recedes now as in then
By the coming into ether

Of the three tenets of Ahriman:
Evil thoughts, bad deeds,
Hate speech.

What would be the point,
As a curated headline,
To not compare

To the opposite,
And what a world it would be
If we should only dare.

Are there that many?
The gilded urns of old men?
Mere ash to scatter?


jam25