‘Tis once again a cycle through,
When settle, we must, our bills now due,
When living itself is rendered as cost
And the illusion it was is subtly lost,
And the pain that is of paying these perpetual tolls
Can only be overshadowed by the blackening of our souls,
And our tenuous hold on these monies to be tendered
Is made ever more so until they’re surrendered
To a hunger, voracious, insatiably wanting more,
Of these grim, unholy papers arriving at our door.
