with the grace of a swan’s neck,
the hinterland of finance
builds on the stones of the murky air.
a gravestone is simple
but our sighs are irrelevant.
if we are cold, it is our own fault.
so they tell us.
i stand on the quiet edge of despair
and light torches.
like lady liberty, I am garden rose
in the torpor of truth.
she holds her candle to the air
and waits for gold to grow value.
it is like tending to a flock.
money doesn’t just happen.
it must be passed from hand to hand,
developing velocity—
each hand succeeds in passing it,
and its consequences are disruptive.
the child holds his candy cane
while the whispers of conspiracy
develop in the sad moonlight.
stacks of dollar bills, aging and valueless now,
are used to purchase stacks of dollar bills
that grow old over time.
how is value created with fiat
wildly presuming to buy with valueless coins
and charge the economy interest?
how do we tell the arms of the clock
from the swan neck of purpose?
• Read Part One here
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