Rich, Poor: Old & Young.

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A poem for the rich,
a poem for the poor.
A poem for the middle crowd,
and words of no cure.

I’ve heard them all, and heard them all.

I’ve heard them say it, and heard them as they heard it.

Though old, though young, I’ve heard them all feel it.

I’ve heard the rich who have it all, among men and all– that want it all.

To be of rich kin, or rich succession.

To make your riches rich–Β greater than heavens.

I’ve heard the rich say it so, what riches they have– still doesn’t, so…

The abundance, the everything, still not enough.

What left to do, they’ve played their bluff.

To end it all, and to feel it such.

I’ve heard the richest riches, still suffer much.

The poor, how poor– mostΒ unfortunate souls.

To suffer in suffer– contrast the richest roles.

They too ponder– to find an end, to escape the search for richer amends.

They stoop in squalor, and reflect it so.

To feel the riches slip their fingers, so.

The scarcity, the nothingness– Bruised, battered, scuffed.

What left to do, but keep living tough.

To end it all, and to feel it such.

I’ve heard the poorest of poor, still suffer much.

 

The Human Condition,

Littermature.

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