My inner council sits to state
The terms on which I’ll meet my fate.
The diagnosis we all see:
A terminal society.

One self promotes the safe ascent:
To hoard the gold, without lament,
Construct a gilded, spotless cell,
And turn the page, pretend all’s well.

Another shrieks to quit the chase,
To seek a wild, uncharted place.
Trade profit for horizon’s view,
And greet one dawn untamed and true.

So half of me still craves the climb,
To monetize my borrowed time.
The other half would torch the clock,
To leave the world one final shock.

For what is all the wealth to hold,
If futures burn, if visions grow cold?
Each office hour, each profit plan,
Just oils the gears that grind down man.

The ledger groans with costs and loss—
Each yearning delayed, each line we cross.
A phantom scratches deep within,
The nation’s debt beneath our skin.

And as the sun sets on our schemes,
We weigh the worth of vanished dreams.
A witness, bound to count the cost:
What mattered most was always lost.

Yet carved on ledgers, sharp and black,
Our epitaph: there’s no way back.