ink

this is not how it’s done.

this is not business as usual.

 

retirement is an illusion;

life is this, here, now.

 

the pain of the present can be counted

on to be capitalized: traded and

 

tucked into the pockets of those living

in penthouses above, outside of, time.

 

we say we want our freedom,

but we can’t handle it; we give

 

it away again and again to

the highest bidder, and we don’t

 

even get to see the profit margin:

it slinks off into the night like wet ink.

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