Veins filled with starch: A poem 

Billboards are reaching out to you in the dark 

What’s on offer seems like a picnic in the park 

The glamour stars have so much spunk and spark 

Impulse overlaps instinct like a scar over birthmark 

This is wine for virgin innocence, tied and entwined 

The acids of indigestion don’t bother your mind 

Holy is the conversation with the demons, you find 

Astuteness never tells you to watch your behind 

You love the money in your pocket filling your basket 

Consider that it also might buy you your funeral casket 

Ingenuity is the omnipotent master with many a slave 

The doctor is a quick-fix who’s digging up your grave 

Promises are as many as there are people in the world 

Know not you only discover deceit in the flags unfurled 

The victors have always been the ones who stole a march 

The rest of us have only limp veins gushing with starch