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
