I take a pill
that tastes like grace,
a tiny mercy just encased.
Another dose to calm the day,
and file tomorrow far, far away.
The market calls
it progress made –
a polished form of lemonade.
It sweetens cells with careful art
and charges up the aching heart.
We pay in time,
we pay in sleep;
the balance sheet is ours to keep.
The remedy arrives by mail –
a miracle with interest scale.
It treats the
world by smoothing pain,
and leaves the invoice in the vein.
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