imagine armies made of souls that have themselves been sold;
youthful ideals vaporized; exchanged for clouds of gold.
transitioned consciousness conducts the current flow of charge;
abandoned dreams left moldering to make the balance large.
imagine union of all souls that sold themselves before,
for land, for life, for love, for gold – your favorite kind of whore.
expended ideals cate’grized; indexed, recorded – sure.
marked down in matrices embodied, pensions made to lures.
who sold these souls, who brought them thence, who bade these debtors true?
what price, what balance moved them, then – who made, if not for you?
who sold their souls had dreamed the dreams which made them what they were;
who made those souls, embodied reams of principles bled pure.
the lifeless hand of metaphor did stamp: “accepted”; true.
and yet, i wonder, where were they, when circumstance met you?