The Great Hoarder

Surrounded by wealth
And extravagance
He sits in his castle
Never needing
But always wanting
While his brethren
Starve and scramble for life

He has more wealth
Than one man needs
Earned through work
And thought
Yet more he gathers
To fill his stash
That could solve a hundred problems

On nights he leaves
To hit the town
Indulging his own vanity
Buying shiny baubles
And the newest toys
Followed by the obsessed
And reveling in the lights

Yet he is not truly loved
By those that starve
And wish to take his place
He becomes a symbol
Of the enemy
As the world rots
And starves to death

Times are getting troubled
He refuses to aid
And risk a drop in wealth
He continues to rise
While his brethren fall
Pleading for help
And being denied

He earned his way
The system is his friend
It is not his fault
That he succeeded
Where others failed
A bevy of excuses
Of why he should not be a hero

What will the Great Hoarder do
When the system crumbles
When the wealth he has
Is no longer coveted
Becoming a worthless stash
Symbols of a dead regime
That placed a price on living

About Charles Yallowitz

Charles E. Yallowitz was born, raised, and educated in New York. Then he spent a few years in Florida, realized his fear of alligators, and moved back to the Empire State. When he isn't working hard on his epic fantasy stories, Charles can be found cooking or going on whatever adventure his son has planned for the day. 'Legends of Windemere' is his first series, but it certainly won't be his last.
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16 Responses to The Great Hoarder

  1. tjtherien says:

    this is fantastic Charles… a lesson of ages past… an omen of things to come…

    Like

  2. LindaGHill says:

    Eloquently put. 🙂

    Like

  3. The last stanza… amazing…. brings it all together. Well done Charles! 😉

    Like

  4. Pingback: The Great Hoarder | Legends of Windemere | Hey Sweetheart, Get Me Rewrite!

  5. ladysighs says:

    I just had this urge to go clean closets.

    Like

  6. coyotero2112 says:

    Wonderful poem, and subject…everybody knows at least one. This is like striking a chord on a piano or guitar, several strings ringing in unison. Love to send this to my aunt who has the ashes of my grandmother’s dog on the floorboards of her car, where they’ve been for years…and my uncle, who was diagnosed as mentally ill because he couldn’t stop talking about the money he was making, or had missed out on making.
    Later…

    Like

  7. Bastet says:

    Love it a great poem…so fitting for our day…what will t(he)y do…interesting question.

    Like

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