Only Six Feet of Land Remains
faded as each pace walked it's mile,
the jaded look of a worn out sire,
sailing through his dismal dire.
Things that shone, now all gone,
Along with the metals ever precarious,
all that's gone is the precious pal,
Amidst the joy withering with each fall.
The drawers filled with silvers and gold,
costed the sire, his soul being sold,
all his grandeur made a pompous show,
for all his metals did once glow.
The evening now wore a dreary look,
behind the restless hands he shook,
gasping through his garish life,
gnawing at his inner strife.
For now the sun marked it's crimson,
burying his riches that's long ago won,
and all that remained at sire's command,
is his coffin buried in 6 feet of land.
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