This is not to the wretched billionaire
I am done with my hope and naïve pleas
Earth is more than disposable funfair
Bank balance propped up by backs and trees
Their fragile ego is swollen like the sea
Minds that are altered poison hearts now shrunk
Take the power back before we are sunk
I thought about writing this to the very richest in the world. Some sort of desperate plea. I have carried a vague hope in their redemption though now more than ever I have pervasive feeling that these people, the billionaires (yes billions) cannot think or feel like we do anymore. Yes, they are still human. Once babies transmitting peace, smudges of wonder oozing innocence. But those days are gone, all those basic qualities squashed out of them by the insatiable game of getting. They are dizzy ego’s marching to the fanfare of their own success. They can’t hear the breeze or sway of the trees. They can’t hear the anger or wails of distress. Shout at them for syphoning off the worlds riches and for treating the most vulnerable, the most innocent, as expendable. Shout at them for these things and more but they will not be able to hear amongst the throng of their own reassuring stories. If they do hear you, catch a whisper, then they will not understand, their minds have been caught by far off ideas of outer space and immortality. Most of all though, of course, their minds have been captured by fear and power in horrific embrace. You can plead with them about the value of it all but I just don’t think they feel it most of the time, when they do it is in rarefied special moments that confirm their suspicions that they might be gods. Instead of those regular moments of everyday love and reliance. What do they value? I cannot say, what will outlast the fires and floods? A concrete bunker? I am sick of holding space for these maniacs, holding a candle hoping for their transformation. No change cannot rest on their action nor be entrusted to them. I am sick of waiting for them to change role and play the saviours. They do not have the substance or spiritual maturity. They would not be able to listen. They could not hold a gaze. Or pause at a sunset let alone a single leaf or bead of water. Their capacity for wonder has been extinguished by the scale of the universe and their bank balances, always too small to remedy their insignificance. Do they love anything? What will they take with them when they die except the knowledge they sunk the world… or burnt it … or both.
At the very least tax them, redress the balance somehow. Disobey, do not particpate, somehow together topple them.
