Rich/Poor Us

Riches are porous. A holey skin to wear and flaunt,

A stitchless facade that dwindles without maintenance,

And haunts the model constantly. The glory and glamour

that enamor the fool sticks like a tan from a can, staining

the surface, retaining no purpose but to maintain

The plane of the image, one wishes to reflect.

To think that rocks recieve such worship,

Because they look like the sun, Shiny and golden,

Easily molded to be worn, Cold enough to hold

in your hand and toast The Holey Ghost,

That porous skin, The Vanity Trend.

Yes, Riches are vain, the prettier rock

is Worth more to a king who was born onto the

Thrown, who never saw his own shit, and worked

for not a soul. He grows old, and never uses his hands

But to motion his servants, He lives like a god,

But as a man, he is not, still, His thoughts on what matters

Are all that matter, He wishes to be perched above the world.

Ironic .

The riches that crowned him sat beneathe the ground,

As if it were the earth shitting gold, to catch and hold our gaze,

As the sun never could, yes riches are blinding rays that shrink

the Iris of reason, To please the virus of reaction, recognition,

By like-minded fools who want to be atop each other

In spools of thread, primed for the alchemy that cheats time.

The Rich get richer .

The poor stay poor.

A poor man needs support, just to stand and stay alive.

The Poorest man is a rich one who wants more.