NO SPIES IN THE MARKET
I walk out whole from a private gate,
One King inside—no room for debate.
But step in the market, the noise comes fast,
Spies clock my future, audit my past.
They whisper, “What’s in it? Why give it away?”
They tally my loss at the end of the day.
They quote me truth but poison the aim,
Dress ego in logic, call fear by my name.
They spy on the heart like merchants of war,
Measure the Light like it’s bought in a store.
“Where’s the feeling? The proof? The sign?”
They sell me delay and call it divine.
Hanukkah comes with a jar cracked thin,
No taste, no thrill, no guaranteed win.
Just oil enough for a stubborn stand,
Faith above reason—match in my hand.
I light it outside where the market roars,
Where ego trades futures and locks the doors.
Not to feel holy, smart, or correct—
But to burn one thought that demands respect.
The spy screams loud, “This makes no sense!”
I don’t argue back—I don’t mount defense.
I light and I act without asking why,
And the spy goes hungry—no deal to buy.
The market stays loud, the legs still shake,
Desire still wants what it thinks I should take.
But one small flame with no demand to win
Turns spies into silence—no place to sit in.
No spies in the Light, no wage to claim,
No Sitra Achra where love won’t bargain its name.
Just friends in the dark, oil running low,
And a flame that says, “Bestow—then go.”
