What gives value to a thing?
Is it the years
it hangs
on?
The ideas
it represents?
The space
it occupies
in memory
as far back as generations
can remember it,
irreplaceable,
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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