A More Comfortable Cage

In her youth, the lesson but a whisper, the trapping responsibilities unknown, she looks to him for his natural attractions, and his facilitation of fun.

In her twenties, the lesson being hammered from every angle, the trapping responsibilities looming, she looks to him for his confidence, the latent capacity to make money.

By her thirties, the lesson long hammered home, the trapping responsibilities leading her to her cage, suckling pups surrounding, she looks to him for the money that he’s making.

By her forties, the lesson embedded and rusting, life’s iron bars set, pups being weaned towards their own entrapment, she looks to him for the money that he already has.

But how much can we blame her? For this is the ‘real’ that the lionized parasites have produced; the pimps that we honor with the rotten word ‘success.’

The real of master and servant, pimps and whores euphemistically cited, enslavement by monetary means, extorted with the purchasability of survival, comfort, even freedom, and the ability to buy the ears of politicians in this place of democratic pretense.

For there is but one lesson, and she’s learned it, for you cannot be so dense as not to learn the lesson when, again, there's but ONE:

Money or misery.

(Dedicated to the endless litany of greater loves lost in the loathsome competition to craft a more comfortable cage)