Sand Through His Fingers

Like a furious whirlwind turning around A scattered force carrying debris, An aimless shot hits from the ground With no purpose reached definitely. Such is the man who runs after wealth Picking at chances in every turn Like a fox that runs after every chicken He ends up with nothing, yet never learns. He plays people up like a deck of cards Mind schemes in his manipulation, Getting his way, he does not find it hard But still he ends up with so much confusion. Like sand through his fingers, wealth slips away The tighter he holds them, the faster they go. As Emptiness shrouds him at the end of day The word Contentment he may never know.