The treasure's curse, flying upon a nest, confined to a purse, never finding rest. It, crawling alone, sentenced to stone, all solace is gone, a treasure's pawn. It, meant to grow, following a scent, ending as a cent, is there a plough? Drop such treasure, be beyond measure, yourself to the plow, be prepared to sow.
In realizing such ephemerality, we rejoice; as a blooming flower that enjoys its unfolding until it is time to go but what been sowed stays with us.