If he is not yet dead

then perhaps he might be better off being so,

for the passage of time ticks slowly in his direction.

Comforting words as the fate of his future is decided

in crumbling office blocks and in the same dusty relics

of men who plot and call coup

in a world of insane potential

and irrational market forces deliverance.

 

These same market forces that made him God,

now turn and bite their master of illusion

hard and nip, drawing blood, it dribbles waywardly