Death's Auctioneer

A splash of gold on a worn-out chair,

Sparkle of diamonds in the loft upstairs.

Murals and sculptures adorning the wall,

Visions of splendor apparent in all.

A head bent with age, doubled with time,

Weary feet walking, the course of the night.

Shriveled hands holding, the baton up high,

Trying to hoist it, despite all the cries.

Young birds perched on his shoulders, so blithe,

Secretly gouging out his faulty eyes.

Pecking, sweet-talking and hoping to steal,

Ears all perked up, golden minds set to glean.

Hearts faintly scarred, slowly disappear,

Lions prowling, quick to catch all the deer.

Some laughter, a tear, dark clothing, bright leer,

All fighting to death, with death’s auctioneer.