C U R R E N C Y

All effort is remanded to currency
Then choices are made to spend on
Acceptance

Rarely drunk, but often intoxicated
She feels in this state that new
Beginnings are as false as old
Endings

Oh, these moments they cloy
Lead her to bed with the sense
She has overeaten the memories
In her brain

Regurgitating into her pillow
She moans, bereft like a beggar
Wanting to be touched without
Opening her wallet

Or her heart

She dreams of people

All the people are kind
Greeting the world without
Ulterior motive

The Gods ignore her pleas
To remain attached to the
Fabric of Springs and Space

She awakens with the
Complexity of bitter bile
Not knowing whether it is
Meant to be swallowed

She writes about love
Not the kind that feels like
A sickening sleep before
Death, but

The kind that feels like
The mistake of pregnancy
When the man rubbed her
Back and fell asleep as she
Cried

Knowing deep down inside
The pain was hers alone

To carry

The secret was overwhelming
To hold in her heart
His Light At The End of The Tunnel
That Only She’d Been Privy To See

And allowed to spend
Without Explanation