Made of gold must be the place

To which we pace an endless race

For which or whom we fall from grace

That we might trace the twisted lace

And gaze upon the shinning face

Of all, the ace, I hope the case

Or god forbid, an empty space

Or kill our great and endless haste

And stop to taste all we did waste

AN-Yes, the shortest I've ever written, but I also see it as the deepest.