ASH TO CLAY:

Are golden ages merely fevers before winter's frost,
Brief, shimmering ephemera before brightness is lost?

Is every soaring summit of human ambition
a precipice or lead-in to decline?
Isn't there any stable stronghold that can resist dark shades?
Is our sole remaining splendor flaunting our own decay?

Perhaps golden ages are like pyrite in our hands,
gilded, glittering fictions spun across the sinking sands.

Are grand illusions fabricated merely to mask our retreat,
while worms gnaw quietly at our tired, cancered feet?