My riches will leave you poor
face-down in the dirt,
begging for more
but the more and more you beg
less and less I have to give.
What I give is the taking,
the dead-end love forsaking
the mind-stealing and
“Kind Hollow, spare some heart?”
I would, if I could –
if I had any to spare or
if mine hadn’t fallen apart.
“Kind Hollow, spare some affection?”
I wouldn’t, if I could,
for affliction is my friend
and I don’t take kindly to desperation.
“Kind Hollow, spare some of yourself,
to this poor beggar, left a shell
shivering in the cold, never quite bold
left with nothing
as even his breath was bought and sold…”
I wouldn’t and I couldn’t
in fact, I just shouldn’t:
you have too much of mine already,
you are the face of my own poverty
carrying all the precious, priceless
gorgeous, omega gold pieces of me
and asking still for more.
(Had this been a gambit, I’d be the bet you always lost.)