They said we’d be rich forever,
once we stopped touching anything.
Now the harvest is numbers,
the barns are passwords,
and the wind trades derivatives
with itself.
Someone tries to fry an NFT for breakfast.
It burns perfectly—
no smoke,
no smell,
no calories.
Out on the plain,
the soil waits for instructions
that will never arrive.
Robbed of the seed,
it remembers creation—
but lacks the strength
to start again.
Even the sun seems tired,
like an old playwright
walking home
to die a little.
Ceteris Paribus 