The Game of Entropy
The rich man builds a palace of glass,
A monument to all he's amassed.
He fills its halls with things he does not need,
Each polished object a whispered, selfish creed.
He scoffs at time, believes he has won,
A king of all beneath the sun.
He chases shadows, a frantic, endless race,
For more and more to fill this empty space.
He buys the world, a slave to his own might,
While others walk in his cast-off light.
He hoards his gold, his paper, and his stone,
A desperate fear of being left alone.
But the house stands empty, a hollow tomb,
The furniture ghosts in a silent room.
The doors hang open to the wind and rain,
And what was once a treasure is now just pain.
A vandal's mark, a broken pane of glass,
The slow, sure hand of entropy will pass.
And in the silence, a forgotten truth is found,
That all the junk he left on hallowed ground,
Is nothing now, a worthless, dusty heap,
As deep as the promises he could not keep.
For every treasure, every prize he held,
Is just a whisper of the story he once told.
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