MARKET OF MEN

I've never aged so much in a year

Writing the shortcomings of this world.

Never has the midnight sun

Seemed so stupidly casual.

I run on so little sleep you would think

I think quick on my feet.

Stories from simple treasures

Intertwine like leaves, twigs, and branches

Of a tree that hasn't felt its own silhouette.

I could praise and perhaps inspire

The dry wood raised to stoke local fires.

I could recite litanies against

The soft glow of candlesticks,

If only for traders to make guesswork

Of which prayers God hears

Based on the brightness of each dying ember.