This walk amongst the dead.
This dance with mortality.
Partnered with those that believe they will live forever.
Gathering, greedily hoarding every last cent
They race to the pinnacle of their professions
At the expense of those they deem competition,
Trampling anyone who gets in their way.
Fattened as the calf bank accounts swell as do their bellies.
Designer clothes and jewelry adorn their swollen vessels.
No thought do they give to the rest of humanity;
Their fellow man is but an impedance to future success.
They have no time for them,
No time for their mates nor their children,
No time for their brothers and sisters that share this earth.
What is their endgame?
When is enough, enough?
They don’t realize that they are already dead,
Dead to the world, their mates and their children.
Paupers as they were at birth
With their final blink there will be no wealth,
No grand houses,
No designer clothes,
No one will weep on their pine box.
When the last shovel-full of dirt is thrown on their grave
They will be utterly alone, naked and penniless
–Before their Maker.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~