The beeping and dripping next to him,
Are voices that he knows quite well.
The ensuing twilight seems ever-present,
As does a truth he can’t dispel:
Rich, respected, he never wanted,
And he never knew such pain.
Yet despite his pomp and admiration,
His works remain in vain.
In the torment of reflection,
He sees there is no help.
Because though the architect of brilliant things,
He could not fix himself.
His triumph and his conquest,
Are but a passing memory.
And as he sits upon the brink of time,
He despairingly starts to see:
The bed in which he lies,
Does not care about rich or poor.
For no amount of riches,
Can pull him out that door.
And as the breaths grow shorter,
He slips the bonds of earth.
His legacy will vanish,
And so will all his worth.
To what and where did he direct himself?
He never really knew.
Thus in future ages when they say his name,
Everyone will ask, “who?”