Lavished in the wealth of nations, the seeker finds no solace.
The rinds of forgotten fruit decay and become the soil of the downtrodden,
for the sake of redemption. I’m not the book of time. I tick though.
And each second whisks away the eyes of prosperity’s
weak hinge on the gilded door that closes out the truth.
I can see for not, hear for envy, reach the sash to close the light.
Tell me of which is my domain. The shepherd of seagulls,
or the cyclone of vacuous offerings. – Sinz