In Halls of Marble I Remain The Floor

In halls of marble I remain the floor, 
Their feet press down, but I am evermore. 
The tapestry they walk upon with pride, 
Yet I am stained beneath the steps they stride. 

The fruits I bear are plucked before they bloom, 
Their hands so quick to steal what I assume 
Was meant for sharing, yet they do not care – 
My garden’s razed, its beauty stripped and bare. 

O wretched thieves, who feast upon my grace! 
Each kindness given fades without a trace. 
They bask in warmth, yet never mind the cost, 
For all I’ve built, beneath their feet, is lost. 

I am the candle flickering in vain, 
Consumed to feed their ever-growing gain. 
They watch my wax drip down with gleaming eyes, 
Unmoved by how my very essence dies. 

My tears, unnoticed, feed their hungry flames, 
While I, forsaken, cling to hollow names. 
I am the stone, the weight beneath their feet, 
The bridge they cross, yet never care to meet. 

Oh, had I known this fate from early days, 
To give and give, while they devour praise, 
I might have steeled my heart with firmer chains, 
To guard against these self-inflicted pains. 

But no, my nature bends to every plea, 
A slave to those who prey upon the free. 
They come with words like honey on the air, 
But leave me shattered, broken in despair. 

How many nights have passed where I lie still, 
A vessel drained, yet bending to their will? 
How many dawns have risen o'er my grief, 
With no release, no hope of sweet relief?