Borrowed Air

The poor must smile before they speak,

Their voices soft, their tone made weak.

Each word wrapped up in folded hands,

A humble plea, a meek demand.

They bow their heads, they phrase it right,

Apologies tucked in every bite.

They beg with caution, tread with care,

As if their breath is borrowed air.

But wealth can snarl, can cut, can sneer,

Its words are sharp, its tone severe.

No need for grace, no need for please,

A single glance can bring to knees.

The poor must whisper, wait their turn,

While cold replies let silence burn.

And so, the weight of gold decrees—

Some talk with chains, while others free.