Black Money
By Elissa Rosenthal
I gave up my dreams to serve you,
toxic overlays of unrest.
Sleepless gasping on dead waste,
clogs your nightmares.
Gaping holes filled with money,
so sticky they pull you into,
the consumption.
You crave for needs not met by your own,
filling your graveyard with the dead touch,
of long dead beings,
so you feel like you have at least received,
gentleness from something.
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