Your face shows thee an illusion of the happiness long sought by tears
of retribution. A elusive traveller of contentment lost. That prominent
illustrator of false satisfaction and materialism. Proprietor of everything
yet possessor of nought.
Envied forever, pursued by the blindness of the ravenous follower. Yet
not for such trivialities as love or companionship. That one jewel that you
have always required, hunted for over a lifetime, yet never owned. Instead
they sprawl at your Midas touch.
You repulse now, exiled by your own commitment to fortune and
eminence. Words of greed and fortune once uttered became truth, your
own prayers answered and for this you now recoil. Ashamed at your own
self-indulgence and gluttony.
You have seen love, felt its breath. Wondered at its divine beauty, yet only
through imagination and dreams can you ever lay your hands upon it. Only
through delusion do you experience the exquisiteness of touch that lover
and love maker shall ever feel.
You have endeavored to grasp its finery, strived to gain such knowledge.
You have precious trophies, love laboured perfect sculptures of the
untouchable efforts you have made. Entire fortunes of love surround you,
mementos, untouchable memorials of your heart.
A lifetime as pursuer yet never as owner. You have everything yet nothing.
Your only certainty lurks around you, silently waiting for its payment, its
shadow almost upon you. It has followed you for millennia with hands only
now making grasp.
As you await your demise, wrapped in cloaks of golden flake and covered
in sheets of ingot, it appears to you. This long shadow calls to you, clad in
robes of blackened textile, awaiting its prize. So you breathe your last breath
as death exacts its toll.