Will this be the ticket,
that beckons the spiget,
to overflow,
with monstrous greed,
of the assumed wealth earned?
Will this be the chance,
where my thighs graze the grass,
and the dirt compiles,
leaves me painted,
cracked with a smile,
and suddenly,
the breeze blows a ghost,
from my presumed,
lucky direction?
Will the 0’s and 1’s,
compile to funds,
that do require hair tearing,
quiet shouts,
and murmurs,
of how I will get out,
of my modern feeble weevils,
that do not know me,
but control glee well?
Discourse unpopulated,
crevices associated,
I dug my own pit,
I even bought the shovel,
I did as you said,
only to lay in rubble.
petrichor - archive 