Devil's Ransom

Nothing but the sound of crickets,
pierced a darkened room
pungent with dust
In the corner reeked a foul odor
As a decayed figure rocked in its chair

Ironically, that figure had rotted before its expiration
and alone the white bearded wretch faced his demise
Surrounded by tokens of his greed and tyranny

Before his eyes had closed
each possession morphed into horrid memories
of every slammed door, every hung-up phone call
Every relationship he sent into oblivion

All too late...

For now no family, nor friend shall proclaim him
No-one but the devil shall have his soul