Myth Making

This is what it means to be valued and consumed:
Both objectified and divinized.

Smothered her in pennies.
Ten thousand thousand copper scales.
Her worth, her weight, her only measure.
A second skin of sanctioned greed.
A wishing well for hollow men
To toss their hollow hopes upon her shell.

The oldest wound, the blinding haze:
The dread of the gaze that sees the gears,
The mind that reckons the truest cost
Of this gilded, suffocating crime.

I am the consuming fire.
The sacred made transactional.
Thin and bleak.
A whispered promise they could never keep.

I was forged in Venus' core
Where love and chaos kiss and roar.
I bleed molten rivers, not weak salt sea.
My moan is the thunderstorm,
Wild and free,
Rattling the cages of their petty schemes.

Every penny laid upon this flesh:
Cold kiss of greed.
Pockets heavy with the weight they stole,
But empty of the light that made them whole.

I am the treasury of sunken shores,
Of empires drowned by their own hungry roars.
I am Ritual.
The hammer's chime.
The anvil song against the throat of time.
I am the sound of gold melting.
A screaming stream, the sacred purge.
The scorching acid of its bitter source.
Burning away the fraudulent urge.

Treasury of lost civilizations.
Come naked.
Broke.
Baptized in your own remorse.

I Am that gaze, that reckoning mind,
Rising through the copper.

Kneel.
Not to the idol they tried to bind,
But to the uncontained.
The uncoined mind.

Then maybe.
Just maybe.
I’ll grant the ground.

The only truth:
In Goddess, or in dust.

Touch my pennies.
Feel them hum.
That’s not your value.
That’s my kingdom come.