The Payment
When in the dark of heated greed,
There was a shock, a unemployed face.
It had whispered of bad weather,
A storm of flashing commerce.
Parchments expanding the stain of green,
By the light of reflecting fleash.
Man has power in dollers,
Captilism mentaly teases the masses.
Encourging the action of fantsy.
A dream exposed for payments.
Desire in the bare undernieth.
To the Devil and the one percent.
But I to, in my sweet sigh,
Of my Shakspear gaze,
For that strangle of golden lights.
The price is,
The pound of fleash.
Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2020
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