I wanted to build you a home,
because loans are sponsored tombs,
And I will be dead
hanging from an insurance tree,
my corpse would hang free
of the caged spirit.
This is my body,
the altar of your investment,
my shadow needs the grooming,
and prepare for this impending doom
called senility,
this depreciating humility
of my wasted consciousness.
Then, they called it recession
for I was assured we need to rest,
To slow this malignant growth,
and we wanted that moon too,
"But there is a pattern,", he said
for this market Saturn
who feasts on hollow aspirations.
What if the tiller had taken your cheese,
and convinced you that you were rich,
and he was poor.
So a nervous Apocalypse didn’t know,
where to start or what to shoot,
For there was semblance of order
in every art and you looked so amused.
Men and women buying more papers,
sealing more gift wrappers
sans giving.
Men and women struggled too,
Begged on the streets,
across the narrow lanes,
of a loud desert of unknown hands,
waving left and right.
These hands were dreaming hard,
fingers pointing towards the sky.
