Rain patters on the window,
piercing my heart like an arrow.
It makes me wistful for something more
than lying on this bed on the cardiac floor.
I guess I earned what was due,
eating good food, resisting few.
The fault, however, doesn’t lie on me alone.
I’m but a product of the American diet and the capitalistic moan.
I work long hours to survive on a dime.
In my past life, I must have committed a heinous crime.
I spy a vision of a hazy future
as I devour this cheesy cafeteria burger and sign my indenture!
Do I even have any agency in this world?
Seems like my thoughts are a clarion call of the underworld.
So, I sit on this bed and stare out the window,
admiring the corrupt world and basking in its glow.
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