It’s so damn
Superficial,
Such pursuit
Of material wealth;

Living in
Vacant mansions
With your family
Left outdoors

Where some of us
Always wait
For our chance
To finally enter

What castle
Begs this damage
As disclosure
Of lost gold –

Real treasure
Missing stones
Like their rare
Yet sparkling glitter

From old faces
Hiding plainly
Among boxes
Stashed and stored,

While keepsakes
Craving souls
Still imbued
As family relics

Endure attics
Throughout ages
Made of dust
And darkened space

Finding light
Shines empty grace
Proving faith
Has little meaning

When our torment
Is expecting
Every day
Will meet its end

Behind windows
Sitting draped
Within basements
Called our bedrooms

Under floorboards
Fallen victim
To the bulk
Of men above

Counting checks
Their demons cash
At expense
Of being widows

Barring wives
Or living children
From that sun
On upper decks

Till wet ceilings
Slowly cave
From old pipes
Near splitting plaster

Bearing leaks
Which weigh too heavy
Cracking holes
Across each seam

Learning burdens
Surely crash
Upon cellars
Once neglected

Just as riches
Only matter
To those kings
Who dwell above.

– J. Pigno