Each of us are born and tapped like a rubber tree when found. Much like a sugar maple to a product that is sound. Cut and bled drop by drop into a common pot. Stored, cooked and stirred and poured into a bottles lot. Or dried and rolled into a ball and cured upon the spot.
We stand within our complex grown, most of us unknown. And give our blood, sweat and tears to products we have sown. We twist and turn held loose or firm with little we can do. We fight as hard as we can fight, the draining of the due. But we know in our very soul the ending of the coup.
Whether we are rubber or the sweetest maple syrup. One foot is on banana peel while the other in the stirrup.