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What gives value to a thing?

Is it the years

it hangs


The ideas

it represents?

The space

it occupies

in memory

as far back as generations

can remember it,


collecting dust?

Who determines the degree

to which wars are fought over it?

Strikes struck down for it?

Luck called upon to salvage it

and prayers to beg for its protection?

Who makes the decree

that seethes into every fear?

The greedy prospect of its loss becomes

all consuming.

The desire for its plumage

Leaves pits of plucked dead misfits

and civilization split

into bloody bits.

It can be anything

held up by power,

imbued like simple poles

that transport stinging volts.

It can be anyone

who’s aim is to devour

and gain control

for sport.

Painting by Johann Georg Hinz (1666 - 1700)

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