You hold in your heart the dreams of youth, yet accept the jailor’s wage and give him thanks. What dreams do pass you by as you give your nine to five and more? To what end, to whose gain? Beware the greed that holds your life within its palm. You believe the jailor’s lie in the brief reprieve, the weekend cleans your greasy hands. Gratification wakens your numb mind; you trip under the feet of the advertiser’s lure. Oh, what magic lies within the boxes of acquisition as your soul serves another week of meaningless destiny. The withered skin and pained hands of the aged shell you’ll wear will rue the young coward’s misery and hopes lost in the melting pot of a country’s crime.
This short post is a response to the day 17 Writing 101 challenge to write about fear in a style different to your own. I chose Shakespeare. I’m not ambitious or anything.