Midas Touch

Our time capsule whooshes by
the highway lights flickering on,
my toes press the pedal;

the bass, the poor speakers
holler at their max
about our birth

about the hypocrisy of time,
about how when we are born
we inherit the Midas touch:

holler about this draining ability
to paint the world
in a lifeless gold.

The words that fall from this mouth
and climb into pipes of the melody
are not mine

but belong to the mind
who lives not out of fear
of being gilded

but speaks calmly of the horror
that the world’s only response
is a glimmer

is an aurum illusion
is a solid sun
of splayed fingers.

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