Reward

Love of money
and love of women.
You shot your pedestal to pieces with your own gun.

It will no longer save you from your adoring visionaries,
from those oblivious ones you direct.

There are two sides to every story,
and dancing has turned to suspicion;
Singing has turned to scandal.

"That's life," you would say as I worshiped your stories.

Your land will not be returned to you until your day of judgment,
when you reap what you sow:
a land rife with hypocrisy will be yours.

Your potholes will deceive you.

We will see your heart and keep our money.

The judged will judge you.

Your family will detach from you like a dog's soul from his suffering body.
Your gun will not protect your body from his resurrected teeth.
It smokes but it no longer brings you power.
40,000 dogs will surround you for every tribe you have deceived.

You weigh your true loves against repentance
as your people weigh your flesh against your glory.

We will tell stories about you.
"That's life," We will say.

You weigh a guilty conscience and an expensive car.
You choose it as your only friend.
It will burn your connections and end your phone calls,
and the two of you will drive in silence over the land you have inherited

Reaping your reward.