The Economists

The economy of souls
a trade of balances
the cursed Midas
molding ink-paper struggles
with nefarious alchemy

With high caliber voices
flashing hollowpoint words
pledging allegiance to his hate
in pillared stone castles

Behind ivory walls
a frenzy of echoes
speak perversions of truth
to the ears of the willing

Duty becomes monstrosity
in taking unseen shadows
as philosopher kings

The economists mourn
the crusade of policy,
the bottom line
blood-slick with red.