The Gilded Cage

He built a fortress, gold and gleaming bright,

A monument to stave off fading light.

Each stone a dollar, mortared with his fear,

Whispering, "Not yet," to the approaching year.

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He filled it deep with elixirs and art,

Hoping to trick a cold and callous heart.

He paid the doctors, promised them the earth,

If they could halt his body's weary birth

Into the grave, the silent, waiting land,

Where empires crumble into shifting sand.

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He paced the halls, a king within his keep,

But shadows stretched where gold could never creep.

He saw the wrinkles etching on his hand,

A stark reminder he could not command

The turning tide, the seasons' steady flow,

The whispered promise of the seeds they sow.

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The irony, a bitter, cruel jest,

He owned the world, but could not own his breath.

His gilded cage, a prison built of pride,

Where echoes mocked the dreams he held inside.

For fate, a patient sculptor, waits and sees,

And claims us all, despite our pleas and pleas.

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The sun descends, paints fire on the wall,

He stands alone, and knows he'll lose it all.

The wealth, the power, crumble into dust,

Returning to the earth, as mortals must.

And in that moment, stripped of all pretense,

He finds a fragile, human recompense.

---------------------The End----------------------------------------