Stolen back, the wealth orients me to who I am.
I am not recognized as things I own;
I could have drowned in the waves with board,
and those things stolen would not have defined me.

It is the eternal slavery to things I am;
Uncomely, but fact.

When taken from me I realize that
they have been taken from me…
but the me hasn’t changed
(but for the realization).

They would take our heads and shake,
amaze the pallid faceless action,
the cowering indifference that dispersed my wealth
among others who would be defined and
recognized as their acts

of thievery.

The cargo of life I carry is dispensible,
and shapes me thus.
But only cargo; it is nothing the drowning would
think of in those last desperate moments.

I think of a soul that to a savage place will go,
but do not think of me.
I think of the acts
that dispersed material wealth,
and left me with a gift of realization
that harmony is not a part of the
huge empty thing
that is this civilization.