The Fates on Wallstreet
New York City
The Devil wears Prada.
Father Time wears a Rolex.
The Muses sing beguiling melodies on Broadway.
The Fates foretell of future failures.
The bull rampages down Wall Street,
horns polished by desperate hands.
Humanity promenades the city’s golden streets,
selling everything to anyone willing to buy.
The Devil wears Prada.
Father Time wears a Rolex.
The Muses sing beguiling melodies on Broadway.
The Fates foretell of future failures.
In the Exchange,
three sisters in stone
hold the market’s thread—
one spinning futures,
one measuring the day’s yield,
one ready with her shears.
They read candlestick prophecies,
trendline omens,
dividends offered like blood on an altar.
The market bell rings like a temple gong,
and men bow over spreadsheets,
murmuring the prayers of portfolio gods.
The Devil wears Prada.
Father Time wears a Rolex.
The Muses sing beguiling melodies on Broadway.
The Fates foretell of future failures.
The bull rampages down Wall Street.
Humanity promenades the city’s golden streets,
everyone selling something to anyone.
When the scissors close,
the thread will fall
onto ticker tape confetti—
and no one will notice the silence
until it comes.
About the Creator
Stacey Mataxis Whitlow (SMW)
Welcome to my brain. My daydreams are filled with an unquenchable wanderlust, and an unrequited love affair with words haunts my sleepless nights. I do some of my best work here, my messiest work for sure. Want more? https://a.co/d/iBToOK8
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Comments (1)
I always feel a chill when walking past that bull on Wall Street, like an omen waiting to happen. I so get this poem.