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Capitalist Tool

The sunlight broadly scatters across the horizon
braced for no man, skipping across rough seas
black and blue, white foam swells, creased upon
the brows of tired men, fooled into believing
their efforts and toil are noble reflections of
their purpose

And though in fact they are to their children,
it is not the soul that hosts misbegotten pride,
a shattered bulb from a long lost flash of self,
lying in vain, to be swept away by a broom,
expendable as was the picture, for it was only
a moment

It is not a little job, enduring self-importance,
ambition that cannot entertain the nuisance of
itself; no, it is not a little job for those who can
only accept the unempathetic nature of those
who pretend to know but their shadow eclipses
no light

When experience outgrows its youth and age
gathers itself around regret and faith, there is
nothing left except to hear fools once bent upon
reward speak of revelation; they sold the time
their children begged for; yet so too I and for so
much less