Counting Costs

Five ninety-nine, the carton is bare,

every price tag a sign of despair.

Once a simple breakfast, now heavy with dread,

I clutch at my wallet, unsure how to spread.

Fragile and white, they symbolize more,

the weight of a world that’s become hard to ignore.

Each number feels like a truth that constricts,

reminders of worries that twist and inflict.

Yet here I stand, at the shelf lined in light,

wondering if eggs will still feel right.

In the cost of the daily, the hunger for grace,

how the value of life is lost in the race.