No, no, dear

Grinding gear,

I’d rather not

Have my knee bashed,

By your attaché,

As you pass.

 

My temper,

Quick,

May throw a brick;

But, what would that do?

You are only you,

After all;

And, a brick

Is just a brick;

Or, is it?

 

Hardened, fired clay,

The product of pulp

Decayed and compressed,

At least, the brick

Knows what it is.

 

The pulp in your wallet

Isn’t so sure,

Its value disappearing;

Still, the pulp remains, solid

Matter crafted

Into illusion.

 

A representation

Of an idea compounding,

fracturing its conceptions of worth.

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