In Go(L)d We Trust

There was no scripture but the rich who made us poor rewrote it,
made a pulpit for a creed of greed and rained it on our heads:
ours in the making, theirs for the taking and in the believing
it was so, so be it; – we bowed, we knuckled down, Amen.

There were no scriptures, only currency, and gold
was the colour of their coin – ours was paper:
shabby sheets that hid a fistulated world
and the cracks through which we fell.

No scripture, no word of God, only
petty laws and faceless money
while we paid a tax on time
to those who wound up
the clocks and tied
us to their dreary
hours and
minutes.

There was
never any scripture,
nothing blessed nor holy
in the sight of overseer or master,
in the bending knees we creakingly
went down upon to show how we were willing.

There is no scripture, no holy writ for deference,
for silence and compliance, for us to know our place.

The mask of ownership conceals the truth of everything:
how acquisition and entitlement of the precious few binds us
to the blessed name of Gold (in which we are obliged to trust).

© BH, 2025

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This is a pointy poem/rant against the system - from the satanic mill-houses of the past to modern capitalism in is writhing mess.

Being pointy, I tried a visual wheeze and slipped another pointy poem into the image. All, well and good, but hard to provide as a text-on-a-page alternative.

So the image shows both but the next post has the second poem in its text. For variety, I changed the image. Just for nice…