At the mercy of wolves.
It’s easy for the dollar sign to pull your head down from the clouds, like a magnetic force where the negative field should be marked clearly and scribbled across the front and back; Harmful, like a pack of cigarettes. Corporate clawing clowns like wolves scratching at your door are born in an office building every day, with a meal of dollar amounts served every hour on the hour. When will they allow us to starve them with the lack of our punches on the hands of time? When will we let the wolves die hungry in the cold, malnurished and misfortuned?
This will not happen soon enough to dig ourselves out of the greenest graves, and the dirtiest wallets. We will die buried in the snow while the wolves lick the ice from our feet, getting the last of what they need to fill their stomachs.
We are at the unmatched mercy of the ever growing wolf pack. Always on our trail, they are picking up our scent that we left on the knobs of our front doors. We are leading them straight into our homes with the lights left on and a welcome mat smothered in the sweat and tears of our mothers, fathers, grandmothers, and grandfathers. We are locked in a cell of our own making, and the key to dismember this mighty pack of wolves lies trapped somewhere under the ice layered thickly over our hearts.
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