His own creation

He lay in pain on the bed of his death,

knowing not when it will happen,

hating how he could do nothing to forestall.

Thinking of times past when he controlled his world,

people scampered when he yelled,

listened when he talked,

feared him when he was angry.

Power, wealth, it was all his,

he worked for every cent,

at times sweating blood,

sweeping everything away,

no mercy or quarter shown to any.

Alone now, for all have left him,

his power and wealth worth nothing

as death slowly approached to take it all away;

swiftly time running out,

like sand it flowed through his clenched fist,

no longer with any power or control,

now knowing it for illusion that it was.

Respected, feared by all,

now he knows that he was also hated,

for people existed only for his personal use,

therefore there were no ties that bind, for him.

Against his will memories arose,

allowing no rest,

showing no mercy,

his life open like a book to his inner vision.

He refused to listen to what they said,

would not learn form what was shown,

not allowing regrets to enter in his sanctuary;

too afraid of what they would show,

also of the death of changing,

allowing sorrow to flow.

Terrified, in the dark of night,

he felt his body grow cold,

no one there to help him through,

believing in nothing, he cringed from oblivion.

His end came with a whimper,

a gentle gasp heard by no one,

a creature of his own creation,

he entered eternity alone.