Money

A tangled thread, a knotted string,

Confused desires taking wing.

I crave a hoard, a golden pile,

Yet know it can't stretch mile on mile,

And mend the cracks, the hollow space,

Or paint a smile on sorrow's face.

I'd hone my craft, a skill refined,

And ask for worth, justly defined.

But truth be told, my heart would leap,

To offer help while others sleep,

To freely give, without a plea,

A service born of empathy.

I don't adore its glinting gleam,

But survival whispers in a dream.

A shield against the biting cold,

A story bought, a tale untold.

I won't be chained, a gilded toy,

To chase its lure, and lose my joy.

Nor be enslaved by want and need,

A life of scrabble, choked by greed.

There's lines I'll draw, and hold them fast,

No sum can tempt me from the past,

Of values held, and principles true,

No glittering price can see me through.

A tool it is, a means to end,

But not a savior, not a friend.

A hammer strong, a sharp-edged knife,

But can't alone orchestrate a life.

No single key to unlock all,

Yet still, I long to heed its call,

And fill my coffers, just a bit,

This paradox I can't acquit.