bargain with my borrowed breath,

to buy back hours I’ve already burned.

I pledge reform, then scroll to death,

still shocked at how the lesson’s spurned.

I quote old saints like traffic signs,
then jaywalk through the very creed.

I praise the stoics, draw no lines,
and flinch at every passing need.

I swear off idols every night,
then worship glowing screens at dawn.

I talk of Logos, seek the light,
yet trip on every word I spawn.

I toast to wisdom, clink my glass,
with sages carved in borrowed stone.

I quote the Buddha, rush to pass,
still cutting others, fearing own.

I wear a cross to hide my shame,
a silent joke the angels note.

I say “Thy will,” then sign my name,
on every bargain I promote.

I preach of “quiet desperation,”
then shout my brand of holy lack.

I sell restraint as liberation,
while hauling yet another stack.

I call for love of enemy,
and then unfollow, block, delete.

I chant of universal plea,
then price compassion by the tweet.

I laud the blues for speaking true,
those field-worn hymns of scar and chain.

I hum their ghosts in tailored shoes,

forgetting songs were forged from pain.

I praise the mind that won’t submit,
to chains of brass and borrowed debt.

Then sign for trinkets, bit by bit,
and call my bondage “safety net.”[.
I lift the texts of stoic kings,
who ruled themselves when all was lost.

I fear a harsh email that stings,
and call it “existential cost.”

I quote Confucius, seek within,
then crowdsource every trembling choice.

I name detachment as a win,
while craving any passing voice.

I speak of souls as sparks of fire,
then ask the market what I’m worth.

I frame my angst as pure desire,
and medicate the ancient dearth.

I cite the call to “dare to live,”
yet bargain dreams for cheaper fears.

I hoard the gifts I meant to give,
and marvel at these empty years.

I treat tradition as a stage,
to quote, not practice, what it knows.

I tag the prophets, call it “sage,”
then skip the path their teaching shows.

I mock the world for shallow aims,
while praying for a softer yoke.

I blame the systems, curse their games,
yet bow each time the rules are spoke.

I laugh at self with gentle dread,
a cosmic clown in mortal skin.

I trip on thoughts that sages said,
and rise, still bargaining to begin.

…

DCG