Throwing snowflakes at the surface of the sun

The monetary prophet  is alive.
His steadfast stance challenges the face of adequate moral resistance.
His likeness casts a shadow over the light of unfettered perception.
Hiding the snakes approach.

Coiled in anticipation, graced with venom-laced fangs.
A scaly pinnacle of capitalist achievement.
All serpents have flaws.
But this breed uses its weaknesses to inject victims with the toxifying effects of financial freedom.

Green blades wielded by long dead presidents.
Brandished by rich white men afraid to draw their own black blood to save the human condition.
A fool is soon parted with his money, a saint divorced from its shrill and nagging behavior.
To attempt a life of the latter, deem it unsightly

Fear and uncertainty when considering the life of a simple carpenter.
A choice to keep the company of derelicts to that of kings.
The prospect of which grips tightly at the white collared throat.
Better that a baton crack against the pavement of a hardened head.

These descriptions cascade from the mouth.
Uttered by one already toiling under the weight of blood replaced with venom.
Resting comfortably while his descriptions relegate themselves to the realm of alliteration.
Meanwhile reality continues to slither the surly bonds of humanity, feasting on lost connectivity.

These are the words of madness,
Idle hands throwing snowflakes at the surface of the sun…