Money Drain, Money Rain. No Pain, No Pain.
Poem (On schedule for an inevitable miracle and a sincere four-pronged crossroads)
The freedom to trade
Everything you love,
Everything you know,
Everything you believe in.
A requiem of epic
Proportions, designed to
Benefit none but you,
Dear cosmic woman of wealth.
Am I still on your plan?
Are the leaves still swinging?
Is the world all set,
To bleed our tune?
Am I swimming
In a strange ocean,
Or your backwaters
Along a weary dune?
Will it be the company
Of my dear mad scientist
In super blocks of smoke?
Or will it be the cobalt blue
ocean, That lets me in
On our inside joke?
Will the blue-skinned man
From Mikival’s legends,
Save me from my demons?
Or will the goddess
Of Victorian temperament
Issue me her summons?
Will I build a country
Without borders to boot,
Or a house of commons,
Write > Cast > Shoot?
Unrelated: In 2022, a 32-year old boy published a cryptic poem titled “Chain blocks writers? Writers block chain”, which set off an unknown set of cosmic bells, bringing said boy into said industry with much fanfare. This is a tribute to the workings of the same universe, and the same lovelorn rapper of dark galaxies who gets said boy’s mojo going in times of non-cholera.
