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The fruits of your labor

A banquet of rot, despair

The rest they feed, indeed,

From this petulant decay

Born with a silver spoon now cheapened by engorged

Gluttony and indulgence

Sweaty, greasy, you slave over the mound of your fruit

With your coveted spoon

This silver and sawdust

The mound, the aura of skeletal shapes

Picked clean by the beetles of your toothless grin

Stupidly, you still believe

You own, proprietary

You own nothing, you possess no one

Possessing less, nothing less than the best

A test of time

You wretched swine

You've studied your orbit, believing you are the center of it all

Staring into the sun and blinded by your inability to see your fall

A construct of your own creation, a slave of your own prison

You crash, pathetic, consuming yourself,

In spite of yourself