By Nathan Crombie
Dear Bishop of Coins,
tax haven saviours are a dime a dozen. You roar like Harley-Davidsons and shine like Maybachs.
And you roll so very far above the lives of the poor and the humble and the meek, who turn your wheels.
Saviours walk. And stumble, bleed, and weep. And beg rides on dirty donkeys. Down here. Among the least.
And it is the least who need the tax break, my brother, not you. The fallen who alone deserve to be caught and cradled.
The proud and the mighty need no exemption, and the righteous seek none, under the law or the gods.
And it is not you who must bear the wounds, who forfeits everything to a facade of piety, condemned to the pits created at your pulpit.
It is us. All of us.
Abide not a gilded house of love divided, but set the self apart; live the right life; be happy. This is all.
And the balance of our creation is not your business, or your profit.
So please, snuff out the very pricey and very pretty torch you carry. It is not the truth and it does not light the way.
It only burns.
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