If he is not yet dead
then perhaps he might be better off being so,
for the passage of time ticks slowly in his direction.
Comforting words as the fate of his future is decided
in crumbling office blocks and in the same dusty relics
of men who plot and call coup
in a world of insane potential
and irrational market forces deliverance.
These same market forces that made him God,
now turn and bite their master of illusion
hard and nip, drawing blood, it dribbles waywardly