Relativity

Happiness cannot be monetized. Pain is relative.
The princess feels the pea and writhes the way
The beggar sleeping outside writhes to cold,
And sores, and fleas. The business of life
Has its currency: suffering. Nothing can keep
A living thing satisfied. Morning comes. One's
Stomach growls. The hearth is cold. The larder's
Empty. Lines already far too long have formed
Outside the warehouse from which bags of rice
Are thrown, so, in the darkness, no one eats.
Go out and beg, and gaze up from the sidewalk
At the pretty place within which, behind curtains,
Some, so fleshy, almost edible, aristocrat sheds
Tears because an item you'd put on your plate
Has made it hard for her to go to sleep.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 146 times
Written on 2019-09-26 at 02:29

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