the storm of the wealth of man gathers as the dust clouds in the desert,
gathers the pressure cells in combination,
gathers the despair of man for circulation on the earth.
The storm of the wealth of man awaits the pressure buildup,
awaits the festering and the spreading of concern,
awaits the wind change from within the deserts bringing dust unto all the seas.
The storm of the wealth of man is building on the debt of man perceived as due to be dishonoured,
on the indebted paper of a nation accumulated in the east,
on the debt of a nation where no-one wants its paper,
on the debt of a nation whose collateral is out of reach of creditors,
on the debt of a nation who uses its printing press to paper over the cracks growing by the day.
The storm of the wealth of man is a storm of self-destruction,
is a storm with repeated echoes,
is a storm which blows the paper of man before it in the dust where no-one picks it up.
The storm of the wealth of man is the outpouring of a loss of faith,
the final surfacing of what has become the time of unbelief,
the opening of the barn doors as the hoarding,
infested with the nests,
is expelled together with the rats and mice.
The storm of the wealth of man reaches the final tipping point as the storm demolishes the houses built with cards,
the paper trails which move in circles,
the signatures not called to account for the end result,
the artful use of paper whose value no longer is able to be established,
whose value only makes it fit for origami.
The storm of the wealth of man ends with dreams in tatters,
ends with retirement plans destroyed,
ends with false wisdom after the event.
The storm of the wealth of man envelops all within the dustball out in front,
catches the herd completely unaware still enmeshed in promises,
catches the bulls upon the cattle stops of driveways to the mansions,
catches cows upon the cowcatchers at the forefront of the freight trains,
catches the slickest and the slowest before they have the time to move,
catches the greedy and the foolish with their stockpiles unprotected:
their stockpiles which wither as they watch.
The storm of the wealth of man breaks upon the moving of a second hand upon a timepiece held by man,
is in full flood well before the closing bell of desperation,
resurges at the day break of new venues frozen in the fright,
overcomes the barriers intended for protection of the bank roll of a nation,
surges round the earth gathering momentum—
as the shops put up their shutters,
as the shops call out to the landlords,
as the shops go up for sale,
as the shops are seen to have no back-stops:
for when the emperor is seen to have no clothes.
The storm of the wealth of man brings the castles tumbling to the earth;
lets the moats be forded when the water is seen to be but ankle deep;
lets the gates be opened as the inhabitants surrender before the folly evident as undressed—
with the discovering of the myth propounded;
lets the ransacking of the castles continue unabated—
as the lemmings of the world of finance rush unto the cliffs knowing there are no ladders down.
The storm of the wealth of man has the speed of conquest,
defies the speed of man,
is tied to the tail-end of the shadow as it is seen to cross the earth.
The storm of the wealth of man has horrific consequences on the seats of commerce:
in the thorough loss of trust;
in the widespread suspicion of the folding coinage of the sovereign realms;
in the demanding of repayment of all the forms of debt;
in the loss of value bound to all collateral within the instruments of exchange.
The storm of the wealth of man is held in check as it bypasses—
looks on from a distance without touching or infringing—
the golden sheen in safe keeping;
the golden metal with a history of success in trade;
the golden target which paces the spiking of inflation,
which defies the cutting edge of deflation;
the storm-proof golden holder of the value of the day:
the safe and golden harbour holding the gold of God.
Wise is man,
wise are the saints:
who know the gold of God is held safely un-pledged within each storehouse—
able to withstand the firestorms affecting the wealth of man:
when the paper inscribed by man is not worth the chasing,
is not worth the catching,
as it blows away.
The storm of the wealth of man teeters within its own gestation;
as the machines of man spit out the ink-demanding balances of numbers;
as qualified by the trailing zeros which man can no longer count unaided,
can no longer redeem,
can no longer swap,
can no longer sell,
can no longer either value or access the collateral of the day as it changes by the night.
Foolish indeed are they who sleep without concern for what the day will bring.
Foolish are they who procrastinate their way to ruin.
Foolish are those driven by the quest for wealth without the knowledge of the market—
in which they choose to play.
Wise are those who pursue their visions in linkage with the hand of God,
in linkage with the counsel of His Spirit,
in linkage with the destiny of wonder.”