In the end, the world is no more than a solid un-carved rock preparing to be thrown to the sea for the entertainment of only those who can afford it. A palm filled with money can create only a fist of fire with the brightness of an old oil lamp used to illuminate the short-lived street lights that litter an old abandoned shell of a person.
The world revolves around an ideal and a uselessness that instills a worth in nothing but a shred of paper and slides it under the skin of man.
A place that only caters to an inheritance beyond one's control only works to shut down attempt and ambition delivered by feelings of desperation. The worlds of those who make the meaningless attempts, spinning like the colours of the graffiti on the old abandoned walls of a decaying tunnel long forgotten by most of the 21st century, a home. They spin with attempts but in the end, only fall back down to the colours of the walls, never to truly be free of an identity that they were pinned to as punishment for a punishment in itself... birth.
As little as we realize it, there is an end to all things but more probably than not, they will fall into a helpless cycle before it fades into a line work on the page inevitably to be turned into a political and social status in the word ECONOMY.
With a place that only lives in one world or the next (, a ghetto or a class) a tear in the sides of both the law and the morals exists that no one can fix because of a non-existent bridge between to the because of a gift and a curse
Social construct...
- XxSaint
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Up against the wall
Poetrypieces of writing that range from fiction to the function of society...
