So afraid he, (of) duplicity,
he locked himself away in his tower.

When he'll leave, no one can say,
until the appointed hour.

Through falling leaves, and fire's hearth,
fresh dew and Summer's harvest.

He hides and waits behind locked gates,
in his tower, filled with avarice.

For you see, this tower is not empty,
nor, hollow, echoing or cold.

It's filled to bursting, with such great treasure, worth even more than gold.

No gold, nor silver, no precious stone, gathers dust in these thick walls,

Something far more hallowed, abstract and rare,
adorns and decks the halls.

Trust.

A simple thing, yet complex in itself.
And those who earn it, and give it freely
Are seen to have great wealth.

Hard to find, hard to give,
Difficult to buy and without, live.

Easy to break, easy to lose,
Easy to foster with those you choose

Bonds worth more than any bond,
Without it, life's joys abscond.

But.

What worth has treasure,
or hoarded wealth, if not spent and shared or given?

If you harbor it, keep it, and clutch it tight, everything for which you've striven?

Just dust and dust, ashes and tears,
Loneliness and paranoia collected for years

As valuable as it is, the tighter you hold,
Trust becomes worthless, a Fool's Gold.

For Trust left to stagnate, rot and fester,
Becomes useless, and to the soul, a fetter

But see! A crack, a flaw overlooked,
In this stalwart bastion.

A window, a portal, through which shines a light,
Igniting dormant passion.

Across the moat of sorrow,
And over the walls of grief,
Through halls filled, yet hollow,
Shines a tempting belief.

The light of hope, the sparkle of joy,
The shimmer of dreams and fate

And on the winds of change, a sound,
A whisper to contemplate.

"Trust me," calls a distant voice,
A tempting change to his current choice

"Some of yours for some of mine,
We'll make the trade, and it'll be fine."

He stands paused before the door, thinking, "No, I've heard it all before.

You say 'some of that, for some of this'
Then something will surely go amiss.

You'll break my trust,
leave my heart stinging,
and go off happy, merry, singing.

And I'll be left, betrayed, alone,
with one more hurt etched in my bone."

"Alone," he says, looking around,
At his desolate sanctuary, devoid of sound.

"Is it worse," he mumbles with chagrin,
"Than this bleak hell I placed myself?

But surely I must remain vigilant, and guard my bountiful wealth."

"Only," he murmurs, pacing now,
"To look at it, all I see is stuff.

Bountiful? Valuable? Yes and yes,
but certainly more than enough.

And what is its value, truly, to me
Besides something to trade, to barter?"

And he suddenly filled with certainty,
He'd die alone, a false martyr.

He hauled at the doors,
rusted from disuse,
Man and door made a terrible groan

"No! Not yet, my future's not set,
I have yet time to fill my home!

With faith and joy, love and more,
I'll fill it with those things by the score."

So saying, and with one final heave,
He tore open his castle door.

Doors flung wide,
on the threshold he stood,
A thin smile and challenging glower,

"Come one, come all, and barter with me,
For now is the appointed hour!"


And as he filled his spacious abode,
I believe I'll finish this rambling ode,

I rhymed too much, there's barely a pace,
And the metaphors are all over the place.

Too, I'll say, halfway through,
it became more of a flex.

A challenge to myself, and to you,
To make the verbiage ever more complex.

But at the core of the matter,
on a serious note,
is a thought that should be engaged

The matter of trust and broken hearts,
Hope, that the pieces be salvaged.

For just as easily,
he could have deafened his ears,
And shuttered his heart some more,

But I, as Writer, naive as I am,
Had him ignore the pain from before.

Is this a reflection of me? Or you?
Perhaps both. No, probably me.

But everyone shares a similar pain,
Even if others can't see.

So to bring this to a close,
with less metre than prose,
My message, stated more simply,

Trust and hope,
those precious things,
spring eternally!