“money doesn’t grow on trees”

Oblivion taunts the highway, stakes claim against shifting tongues and masters politics for tragic ends. Loneliness is Nihilistic. Attempts in forward days, make tomorrow a mode of thought. Is this anything at all? 

Candles dress the air in flames. Mirrors move mountains. Dirty prayers stage exits. 

TV channels apprehend the color spectrum. Trade vows with WiFi. 

What does the end mean? 

DayDreams make rehearsals. DayDreams are rehearsals, but for what? 

An end perhaps. Laden with ripe grapes, wide mouths sing hosanna. Is this an end? 

Rats are stagnant lovers, fur drenched, helming squeals to infiltrate spaces sanctioned as apex fixtures, as building shadows where humanity dares an evasion. In the end these rodents contain no names. 

Bellflowers chime. Faces hidden among the tree bark laugh at mind matter. 

Golden stages: herein multiple shines transpire. 

A rat’s tooth catches the light through a sewer grate, traveling along a sewage stream.

Fire mitigated to take down the building’s shadows. 

A dollar bill scapegoated as value mounts a tree branch. It lodges inside a splinter, jutting out where the leaves grow. It remains disguised, admired like foliage promised in cycles. Proving money doesn’t grow on trees, but it will find a way to be on top.

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