Because I'm not a poet

As writers,
We fill our book with words.
So many words.
Gluttonously stuffing our pages,
We want to be full and happy.
Words are currency in this bankrupt world.

More words we bark!
MORE. MORE. MORE!
We can celebrate anything we want!
But in our consumption we forget.
What is our story?

So our fate is like this:
Time will be let out of its cage,
Like birds disappearing on the horizon.
The Greatest Thief of all will introduce himself
With a bow and a grin,
Hooded and dark.
He will tell us,
“You may have been rich then,
but now you are just as poor as the poorest man.”

Then we will all fall silent.
It will dawn on us as darkness swallows us
And we will wish we used words to write a story.
But then it will be too late.
We will leave our words on the page,
Like how our souls leave our bodies for the sky.