I’m stealing myself to the acrid but sweet.
Taste.
Liquid gold snaking down my throat,
bitter moca, sweet mint.
How could I be so deserving?
Politics.
Prosperity.
Destruction.
Disease.
It’s far too early to talk this serious.
We all know, in truth, we have no control.
Still we kid ourselves.
Maybe we’re truly afraid of what we know,
nothing much at all.
Stealing myself to this taste, slipping with the gold to someplace else.
Someplace where wisdom is key, and yet obselete.




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