The ledger's writ in sweat and shake, The market's pulse, a desperate ache. No long-term gains, no pension plan, Just primal need, for shattered man. The currency is what you hold, A copper wire, a story sold. The watch that marked a better time, Now just a coin for hurried crime. A stolen gleam, a whispered prayer, Anything for that fleeting air. The pawn shop's glow, the alley's hush, The only bank for frantic rush. The dealer's glance, the silent nod, An instant grace from a cruel god. For brittle rock, a fiery breath, A brief escape from waking death. The "profit" is a soaring high, A moment where the world goes by. The "investment" gone, the body spent, The only peace, a mind unbent. But dawn breaks cold, the interest due, The "economy" begins anew. The pockets empty, spirit torn, Another future, freshly shorn. The cycle turns, a hungry quest, For peace that only finds its rest In brief oblivion, bought with dread, The only life inside his head.