What you’ve stolen fades away,
Nothing made of gold can stay;
All your silver turns to brass,
All your diamonds into glass.
Look at your reflection fair
In the mirror hanging there;
Peer again, though, and you’ll see
You’re laced with mortality.
Cruel payment’s coming due;
You will have to pay it, too.
All the games you like to play?
Death will snatch them clean away!
Until then, however, know
That you’re free to come and go,
Doing what you like to do—
But on Judgment Day, you’re through!
More The Whirligig #275
More Writers’ Pantry #29 at Poets and Storytellers United