Plaster-coated ideals
Teaching submissive language
So the company you keep
Refuses to flourish
Holding you down
While you think you can move
But you are wrong
And what you have is nothing
Or so it would seem
But cut the blinders down
And see the forest floor
Transparent greens in area
Foliage funneling briskly
Place to growing place
You only make enough
To be nothing and everything
With red of blood
And the meat of trees
Where the stacks of bills
Seal your fate
Certified, in a way
You look to the sun
Yellow to red
Makes you orange
Like a leaf in the fall
Or maybe more
Dust in the breeze
Blood on the floor
