Cog against the machine

your pocket has a hole the size of your palm,
and your palm is etched with the creases
lining your forehead, a telltale sign
of what's ahead being within

you spend what you make to make what you spend,
and you do it today to do it all over again;
no motion is perpetual, unless there's motive.
wax lyrical knowing talk is cheap.

you feed your vessel, your soul unkempt
like feathers on a raven's back; your forehead
at the altar of barter, your gut at the butcher's —
no more tears, only infants cry here.

Stewie Chatterjee is a writer and law student based in Dhaka. Find their work @stewiechatterjee on Instagram.