Money does not mend the soul’s quiet ache—
it swells the echo already in the room:
a cracked cup overflows with the same thin wine,
a full purse clinks with the same hollow tune.
Turn your gaze to the small, unasked-for gifts—
the steam that curls from bread still warm with dawn,
the stranger’s nod that costs no coin to lift—
and watch the world lean in, drawn by that drawn.
But chase the wind you cannot cage or name,
the weather of another’s heart, the crown
of distant thrones—your hands will close on flame,
and every mirror show the same thin frown.
#coffeechain
