Wish I were the answer
Which comes before the question
The hidden star in the firmament
Of your night of magic murmurs
What happens when your massive wealth
Flows freely from the misery
Of the swindled millions plodding city pavements
In search of their absent dreams
What happens to those
Who measure their height
By the genuflection of those
Who pray to absent gods
What happens to the missing Amen
Of their frantic prayers
And the vulpine Shepherds
Who break their fast on tender loins
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What happens to the compass
Which loses its way
And legacies which hit the road
With crooked legs
What happens to the pod
Which comes without a seed
What happens to the masquerade
Which loses its mask in the marketplace?