Colder than the winter pavement
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.