Greed

In mock-Tudor mansions, within walnut and oak,
Airs of entitlement, a wealth-fostered graced folk.
The drawing-room gleams, with its Chippendale chairs,
While hidden anxieties gnaw at the stairs.

For Gerald, a good fellow, with stocks on the slide,
Feels a hollowness growing from somewhere inside.
The yacht in the Med, and the villa so grand,
Are burdens to bear in this cash-strapped land.

His wife, Cynthia, darling, with features once keen,
Now sports a new face lift, it's somewhat obscene
A display of defiance, a desperate ploy
To hold onto youth, and misspent joy.

But down by the stables, where pigeons take flight,
Old Thomas the gardener tends roses with might.
He speaks of the seasons, the sun and the rain,
Contentment he finds, a release from life's strain.

His weathered hands calloused, his smile ever bright,
He holds in his heart a far greater light
Than the diamonds that Cynthia so craves to possess,
A soul power untarnished, a simple man's bless.

For greed, like a fog, can obscure what is true,
While the strength of the spirit can see us right through.
So let Gerald chase profits, and Cynthia chase youth,
There's soul power within us and that is the truth.