The ones who swim in money
care only about finding the end of bottomless oceans.
The ones who thirst for it
repeat sermons to themselves:
not everything is about money,
while secretly auditing
every smile, every handshake, every body,
as if each could be counted
in a currency that might finally matter.
Both keep buying time
cheap seconds at premium interest
a pyramid scheme with the clock,
that always cashes out wholesale.
And when the ledgers are closed,
the accountants of eternity won’t bother with balance sheets;
they will pen a line, a singular one:
every empire, every beggar,
written off as dust.
Death has no receipts;
only a warehouse of bones.
No comments:
Post a Comment