markets groan,

everyone falls down.

they’ve all gone,

yachting it off

into the sun.

tan so crisp,

crackling bits,

smallest feed tonight.

to them were all ants,

trying to get into their pants,

and touch their dough.

off with their hands,

the madman expands,

blocking sense along with him.

power is given,

when taken it’s prison,

bid this when it’s time to protest.

– InkeyString, 2022