“Work is its own reward”- so spoke
scions in the eons of time;
Some made a name, others took
to anonymity as no blot on name.
Fame, perhaps, a curse on name
its scars leaving a dull pain;
the world deaf to your cries
heckling at hopes in your domain.
But the scions stuck to their edifice,
A gut feeling with seeds of life;
All sneer and scorn midwife
of a dying order, emitting last sighs.
Knowing, a trapdoor to anguish?
Can it keep the doer on a leash?