Fifty-Percent: a Paradox

Power is too devastating a concept for the groundlings to scourge on. Instead, we thrive on inspiration, A hope that things could change. And those luxurious bourgeoisie that roam the outskirts of reality, have no limits, But unfortunate for them, they also have no ties to humanity. Floating above everything that breaths, until they breathe their last And having only the masquerade of parts they acted out to define their existence. I would like to leave a footprint that has not my name flashing on a red carpet, [mostly likely red from blood split henceforth] But instead a list of people I saw with bleeding hearts. A story of a homeless man who knew the meaning of all arts, despite his lack to make any living off of them, and you could see him everyday making rounds, pushing his rusting grocery carts. Every ingredient from the sliced finger to the squinting eyes after tasting the accidental mistake of salt for sugar, that went into baking that perfect apple pie. To impress your in-laws. The picket fence painted by Mr. Cain, and the window washed by Mr. Townsend of Lot, who did not drip a drop, or leave a single spot. Retrospection to the simple question of would you rather? For I would like to think that money escapes my vision, Morality ruling all I see. A true Robin Hood story is sadly a compulsive lie I choose to try and be. As altruism is as false as any other self-deceiving truth of modernity. Any gift given with think or not, gives back with a smile or warm thought. So do not think you are true, because that thought makes that truth, untrue.