#9 The Cost of Life

courtesy: Katherine Evans

The cost of my life was

The price of a shoe

branded with an upward stroke

that made you sure 

of your correctness

made you confident enough to

just do it

as  you inhaled envy

To exhale death upon me

Unshaken that I'd be 

ripped from my young,

my daughter and son

And the rest of my family

It didn’t matter

because the brand was the goal 

it provided status,

you knew you’d feel lit

and with those ideas in your juvenile mind

you performed with slight of hand

 like a magicians trick

and by your blade I vanished

for the cost of something

that didn’t even fit.

 The cost of my life

was an insurance policy

that gave you access

to a large but limited fee

that from your point of view

was the unlimited dream

one I had mistaken

for our life together,

my happiness thrived

on the edge of your sleeve

but with a flick of your wrists

it became dismantled

eyes laced with licentious tenacity

that laid hold on the greed

that became master

of the taut rope behind my neck

and the disappointed terror

that erupted through my flesh...

expensive tastes, expensive scents

that now forms your  last memory

of me, my smell.

No. 5 Chanel

currently overwhelming the space

of your small square cell.

 In your thoughts I was objectified

My net worth the same as

an operating system

compacted into

a gadget that would

crack as easily as

its edgy frame

at the slightest mishap

or accident

as you claimed

it was

when a model

that changes every

year or two was the price you

could afford

for me to stop breathing;

applications

that you thought

you needed so badly

handier

with my absence

in your narcissistic selfie

that verified

my presence on earth

was worth less than your definition

of innovative technology.

The cost of my life

was ironic

approaching me

a menacing silhouette

asking me for my wallet

thinking of the green

sure I’d concede

in relief for pseudo-might

not shattering

my dreams

of just being alive

to live another day

but that did not happen

and I was slaughtered

by an...

idiot.

 Thinking that I was lying,

unaware of my own struggles

said I was keeping it all for me

told me it was my own

fault that the holes in my gut

burning and leaking

was a punishment that had to be.

Before I closed my

eyes ,  I heard the terrified cry

weren’t you upset…

because the cost of my life

was worth the contents

or lack thereof

of an empty leather wallet.

Money is relevant

but not as important

as some persons hold its worth.

The cold reality

is that though many have tried

to justify printed paper

its value is obsolete

when compared

to a life that once was,

now residing

six feet under the earth.

The price of many lives

for material gain

has confirmed

what our world has come to hold dear.

Not empathy, or love,

truth, honour or trust,

but power, arrogance

and manipulation of fears

We’ve mistaken

the sacred for a piece

of paper

that can be easily shred

into the dust that will

cover the wood

of our very last bed.

Conclusion?

To put another human in a box

for something

one can earn if one dares try

is a price that just defines

what you hold first

 not the need for approval, 

or to escape poverty's curse

but your own projection

about what

the cost of your own life is worth

For one body though through

your vile means was laid to rest

will endlessly culminate

under the weight 
of your own death.

My Inspiration: Wadadli. Crime.

© KohylahPiper 2015