Ετικέτα: greed

Split

Before names were carved in stone,
Before iron tasted blood,
The people of the green places danced with Death.

They crowned themselves with leaves and berries,
Bared their skin to bark and thorn,
Welcomed Death into the circle,
Winter feared, honored, worn.

Death came then in borrowed shape,
Bone wrapped in moss and swords,
Watched and counted and learned the rhythm,
Of breath, of laughter, of the world.

And for a long age, the world was whole.

But hunger crept in people’s heart,
They looked at Death and saw a gate,
They asked how much, how soon, how long,

How long a body could endure?
How many lives be bound together?
What if the boundary was torn?

They broke the circle.
They stole the instruments of Death,
And Death responded.

Bodies welded into one,
Mouths fed without filling,
Death walked on hills of bodies and called itself living.

Storms screamed and split the skies.
Roots recoiled from the soil.
The world cracked.
From the wound spread white veins of ruin,
Branching beneath forests and cities alike.

Death no longer dances.
The wild remembers.

So, I implore you, wanderer beloved,
Do not ask how much life can be taken,
Only how it should be released.

The Gambler’s Hollow

He rode in, dust-bitten,
pockets lined with tarnished silver,
eyes burning under a sun-bleached hat.
Cards snapped, whiskey swirled,
the house always had its fill—
but never enough for him.

The dice called him brother,
the deck shuffled with lies,
the weight of his purse
rose and fell like the tide.
A king at dusk,
a pauper by dawn.
His laughter turned to curses,
his curses turned to prayers,
and his prayers,
turned to nothing.

He lost the last of it.
Coins rattled in other hands.
His own, empty now,
cracked, curling, reaching for something,
anything, to make him whole.

He wandered full of nothing,
shoes full of dust,
heart full of rage.
Loss sharpened his hunger,
not for money—no, never just money—
but for the feeling.
The chase, the risk, the game.
He was the hound. The rabbit.
The blood in the dust.

Trees.
Roots deep, branches stretched to the sky.
No numbers,
no wealth.
Only umbrage,
and lull.

A stray dog followed him one night,
ribs sharp, eyes soft.
It licked his fingers, tasted his hunger,
and gave him nothing in return—
but company.
He should have kicked it away.
He didn’t.

The river croaked,
slick bodies slid under the moon.
Eyes,
wide,
waiting,
endless.
They needed nothing.
He hated them for it.

One night, luck kissed his hand.
He won.
Again.
And again.
Gold piled, the weight of it,
familiar,
but hollow.
The hunger shrank,
the greed remained.

He stopped chasing.
He didn’t need to anymore.
No more dice, no more risk.
Just counting.
Measuring.
Owning.
His fingers traced the edges of wealth.

And without hunger,
without fire,
he felt nothing at all.

A ghost remembered him.
A man with dead eyes and a bullet in his gut.
A man who once begged him
for the last of his coins.
Begged him for mercy.
A man he had laughed at.
A man now laughing back.

The ghost came in nightmares.
It took his warmth,
left him cold in golden sheets.

The bouncer knew him,
and did not care.
A shadow in an alley,
a fist like a hammer.
The gambler hit the ground,
and the ground welcomed him home.
Ribs cracked, blood pooled,
and he felt something at last—
pain.

In his final breath,
the dice rolled one last time,
and he thought—

Of dirt under his nails.
Of morning sun on green fields.
Of the weight of a shovel in his hands.
Of a few coins in his pocket.
Just enough.
Just enough.