Long dead, a wanderer
had named ‘prestige’ a torturous creature.
Were no truer words spoke; here lies the tragedy:

The paradox dictates all: the suits and the rags,
to be born with prestige.
While the suits works for it & the rags dream it,
the sold find it a bitter memory,
& the governor finds it a precious bargaining chip.

Infestacious in form, torturous in reality,
it twists and turns, making a good man a wretched one,
imposing a tiring worldly and wordy contemplation
dotted with a series of stipulations.

If one is to pitch a conclusion,
that ‘one’ shall be termed a blithering fool-
for the one venturing to provide such,
often adopts a political connotation; once shall he do so,
invisibly visible forces
shall take turns to pull his legs,
for, now the said, has become a remembered soul for others;
who shall, thus handle his this ‘prestige’ with much ironical care.

Thus, the tragedy that was to end
starts anew, again and again,
until
it
never
ends.

- Kai