Womb of Avarice

Misers deluded by their greed

Each drop of gold a wound as the soul bleeds

Gilded claws clutching deep into the soul

Bejeweled temptations taking control

Enriching damnation by which virtue is bored

Crucified above the glittering hoard

Each coin a toll down perdition's gates

Ruled by their own flaxen hate

Seek not the aureate path

Expedited towards divine wrath

Gleaming tumors deep within

Golden and auroral yet worthless sin