Incense of blades of grass,
Breathing the lulling distance,
Into feigned unconscious lungs,
For a juvenile surge of penance.
Monarch dictated drum rolls,
Beating like a gigantic heart,
Of some beast undiscovered,
For the death march to start.
Raiding the merchant"s den,
For the treasures priceless to pass,
Through the lyrical constraints of time,
And to be freed for men to amass.
Chagrined lads and lasses,
Sequestered from fortune and fame,
Lay bare their empty palms.
Dreams of glory lie low and tame.
But fragrant dreams of success,
Ever elusive, like sand in dry fingers,
Waste away into the blowing wind,
Hope, like a loyal maiden, lingers.
Adorned in luck begotten gold,
Humans of wealth and consequence flaunt,
Contemptuous to roadside urchins,
With faces hungered and gaunt.
Russelling silk whispering on marble,
Rhythmic tinkling of wine glasses,
Down by the roadside, those misfits in rags,
Drink from filth and grime that passes.
Warmth and heavenly grandeur,
In silver luxury mansions,
Yet some rest their forlorn selves,
On sidewalks and strange grey stations.
Then in the mortal end,
All embrace death and rest,
Some buried in smooth and varnished beds,
And some in the soil at best.
