Tales Of Lost Treasure

Spending the scant treasure we have left
on the mundane. Breathing’s now as expensive
as sleeping. How we’ll balance the books
is unclear. Feels like we will owe forever.

They gave us a cursory accounting, 
said there would be no full reckoning 
until after we were done with being;
we accepted these lies. Accepted this decline.

Silver and gold, folding bills, 
electronic ghost money; even our best lives offered up
on collection platters to the liars we have always 
honored who claim destitution is freedom.

So: they call this broke. They call this
poverty, poor, bereft and adrift. We call this
now.  We call this eye of the needle;
exit of the labyrinth; birth canal.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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