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By Thomas Ryan Lloyd


Colder than the winter pavement

You sit

Cup of coins half empty,

Symptom of a contactless world.


Light stutters through stampeding legs

Wearing inequality as designer suit and tie,

Forgetting privilege is but the roll of a seven billion-sided die.

To some, life it must feel fixed,

Maybe brave should be redefined as born rich.

For fortune is too subjective a word,

When we no longer value anything.


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