Lost Grip

The rich can do anything:
A naive point of view.
For there is another level,
Oblivious to me and you.
Where choices made
For sole intent,
Sing their own lament.
Restricted by invisible curve
Of which few aware.
An elite whose course
Is holding there,
With true belief
In earned control.
Not realising grown illusion
But only in its
Trumpeted role.
One day waits
To witness
Lost grip.

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