hangs from us
like ribbons of flesh
from a carcass of dreams.
Working hands impregnate
the unconscious soil,
spawning visions of grandeur
that spin like Saturn’s rings
around our psyches––
constricting & releasing
constricting & releasing.
We all yearn to possess
our forefathers’ prosperous fruits––
that ripe produce of the vine
whose intoxicating nectar
grants us the material strength
of a thousand golden suns
fueling us with the scorching warmth
of the Complex Midas and all its virtues.
But from the abyss of riches past
a sage voice will call:
“Don’t think you have it all!
For though the ancient touch of Kings
can make you stand proud and tall,
A fool with money will always fall.”