Golden Chains
In the black cathedral of ambition,
where hunger kneels on marble floorsAnd fortunes are
counted in prayers muttered through broken jaws
A chill metallic glint flickers in the sockets of those long buried
Their coffins lined with tarnished crowns,
greed’s whispers hurried—The echo of empires devoured by the ache to consume
Gold gleaming brightest just before it damns the room.
Each coin is pressed from marrow and shadow, the stench of ancient sin
A forge stoked by fear, by fever, by the urge to win—No king, no priest,
no lover immune to the slow infectionOf golden chains coiling tight, a self-chosen,
glittering protection.Gems hoarded like spells against loss,
a talisman for the blind
The clutch of luxury that slips a noose around the mind.
Mountains of loot stacked on skeletons of trust
Silver choking throats that once could love,
now feeding only dust.Rubies weep in the darkness,
sapphires cold as funeral stone—All the treasure in the world,
and not a soul to call it home.What’s the worth of an idol
if the temple’s left to rot
Or diamonds pressed to lips that memory forgot?
Each transaction—an exorcism, the offering of one more piece
Bartering away blood and kin for a moment’s
increase.Rituals of wealth written in ledgers and scars
The old gods of poverty sold for a seat among czars.A hollow heart pounds,
hungry for the rush of more
Yet every vault cracks, every lock a myth, every gain a war.
There are no saints in the gilded crypt, no absolution in the bank
Only the slow grind of hunger, the tightening,
the rankDecay of men who traded futures for a lust they couldn’t name—Who thought gold would
make them holy, but found only blame.From the
bones of Midas to the palaces of thieves
The dead reach out, entangled in riches that no longer believe.
Hunger shapes the hand, the hand shapes the world
A spiral of deals where innocence is sold, and every flag’s unfurledNot for freedom,
not for kin, but for the cold sweet jingleOf coins against skin—where love and hope
and dignity mingleWith dust and regret,
until all that’s left is a parade of possessions
A museum of losses, a gallery of obsessions.
Who owns the jewels—who really holds the deed?The man weighed down by rings,
or the poverty he feeds?He stares at the ceiling, watching gold leaf peel
Counting everything except the things he’ll never feel.His lovers gone,
his children lost, his friends turned ghost or rival
All that’s left is the ache, the gnaw, the endless trial.
And in the end—no burial shroud is woven with wealth
No crypt lined with comfort, no gold
that buys back health.Only the cold hush of vaults emptied at last
And the taste of a kiss that never could last.He is swallowed by treasure,
but never possessed
A king of illusions, a pauper undressed.
Let the world turn its back on the hunger of men
Let the markets collapse, let the wheel spin again.For every fortune built,
a thousand curses bloom—Every coin a prayer,
every jewel a tomb.And the golden chains wrap tight, eternal, unkind
An empire of nothing, forever entwined.
When flesh is gone and memory is stripped to the bone
The only wealth that lingers is the hunger alone.For
all the gold in the world cannot ransom the soul
Or warm the bed when the nights grow cold.In the echo of loss,
in the silence of pain
There is nothing but hunger—and golden chains.