The Miser In a hovel of hoarded dreams, Where shadows dance and dust beams, A miserly figure, gaunt and gray, Guards his treasure, night and day. His eyes, like coins, shine bright and cold, Reflecting the wealth he's yet to hold, His heart, a vault, locked tight and strong, Where love and joy can't linger long. His fingers, like skeletal branches, Grasp and clutch with a covetous stance, The gold and silver, his heart's desire, A treasure trove, his soul on fire. But as he sits, amidst his wealth, A lonely figure, bereft of health, His riches bring him no delight, Only a hollow, endless night. His life, a ledger, tallied and scored, A balance sheet, where love's not stored, His legacy, a chest of gold, But his heart, a tomb, forever cold.