Gold (poem)

Those that settle, do not settle,
Those who pan cannot be those who plan.
Those who are gild, have their own guild,
But those appearing pure, one can’t be sure.

Water washes away the porous, leaving only the dense.
Few resist the chorus, nearly no one has any sense.
Acid melts away the reactive, leaving only the noble.
But do you find unattractive, magnets here and global?

Get used to being daily panic stricken,
For we are all just headless chicken.
The gusts from our wings are full of doubt,
Unsure if we have the chaos butterfly’s clout.

Perhaps I should wake from this fanciful dream,
Of us forming an ironclad pan-venture team.
I should not be a robot, following the software of old,
Adapt to the changes, and accept that there may be no gold.