Foreclosure from Unself by Conjurer

What does mercy concern you,

When it’s grief that helps fill your quota?

Choose a number, its value irrelevant.

You know we can’t pay; this, by design.



Delay.

Displace.

Deny.



Deeper still to dredge,

There’s life in this corpse under your tread.

Even then, when their last breath escapes you,

The debt passes on, the cycle born anew.



“O capital, stay your cruel hand!”,

“Since when did profit lay the law of this land?”,

They shout from the rafters.

Alas, this machine hears nothing,

And feels even less.



“Each life but a number,

Fear not our neutral blade

And its impartial swing.

The sum of your existence,

Just digits to be paid.”



Delay, displace, deny.

Consume.

Credit.

Deficit.

Foreclosure.



All dead peasants pay their debt.

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