are those who survive
long enough
to watch their once-ripe
goals become
fermented into mush
which they scoop up
and store in a mason jar
with the label hopes and dreams.
The sour stuff seems
to work great
as an offering
to those featureless
angels who'll watch
over their graves.
It's not
that they believe
that these magical creatures
will come
and alight and
eat the stuff—
it's just that
they know
from bitter experience
that nothing
in the universe works
without pay.
