Prophet Margins

Prophet Margins

Wealth, it comes in many forms
In flesh, in bone, in blood
Kin can hold the strongest bonds,
in fire or in flood
Whilst greenbacks form their own reward
In markets stocked with greed
A cost that most can ill afford
Yet still we don't take heed,
take lessons from the growing pains
With roots decayed, corrupt
Ironic how such fiscal gains
Rend morals so bankrupt
Rendered obsolete in greed
There never is enough
A goldfish bowl kept small to feed
With minnows living rough
Whilst grasping fatcats paw and play
With different forms of wealth
Bankrupt with the soul's decay
A green backed bill of health
With levels of self interest paid
Too often, all too much
A fox hunt so may dup, depraved,
and carried out as such
With bungalows now brokered, aged
We watch the towers burn
With cladding cheap, we're choked up, paged
With new leaves written, turned
Authored by an upper hand
Scripted by those who won
Racing lines warped from the stands,
yet still the race is run
With towers strong and stable, charred
When maybe they should fall
With cladding far from able, marred
Transparent, baring all
Living in the margins frayed
With profits off the page
With prophets shot and silenced, prayed
Amidst disciples' rage
But flesh, it has a memory
Every muscle, sinew, bone
With money burnt as currency
When flames die, we're alone
and wealth, it comes in many forms
The seeds we sow, we reap
Bathed in floods, in fire forged
… with memories that keep