The Gilded Skull
By Dave
It gleams in the half-light,
Gold poured like honey over bone,
Filigree curling across its surface,
A sugar skull forged of greed.
Diamonds trace its grin,
Emerald eyes smolder in hollow sockets,
A death mask made for worship.
This is no relic,
No lost artifact of old kings or corsairs.
This skull belongs to the now,
Adorned for the modern plunderers—
The ones who pillage with screens,
Trade air for gold,
Spin dust into kingdoms.
But beneath the gilding,
The opulent shine,
The same dry truth remains.
Bone.
Brittle. Fragile. Mortal.
They call it treasure,
Call it vision,
But the skull grins knowingly,
Its laugh a silent echo:
All that glitters is empty.
Emerald eyes burn brighter,
The sockets of a predator
Staring into the hollow of us all.
The gold is just a mask,
The jewels only bait—
A fleeting dream for those
Who think themselves immortal.
And yet it grins,
Always grins,
As if to say:
Beneath it all,
You’re still mine.