My guilt fills empty hands
with a stiff hesitation.
Yes means no
in this stained utopia
of dreams reflective mirrors.
You.
A poor man walking
in the confines of your
moth ridden pockets.
Your drive and heart parallel.
Get up. Move.
Fortune basks in misfortune.
I'll fill your hands when
they display the cuts and dirt
from your menial plights.
Only then,
when your greed spills over
your once honest grip.
You will realise
you were rich already.
