Many times I had gone by those fields where fortune flowers. My wealth was noticed on the path and where those paths did lead.
Come across by thieves I was, with jealous grins and pointed knives, and demand they did each coin I had ever made.
But I declined and dare did waste their time, the time of those who swiftly slashed and stuck my form.
They look but never know and pass by as they go, they never give a thought to fields of flowers.
Had it been in some great crypt or hidden in a mountain’s caves, you could be certain they would be looking, searching, digging where they go.
But never will they know the secret, not even when they killed me and searched my pockets in and out for coin.
But my last laugh is here in death as I watch my bones lay where I was thrown, surrounded by the tall grass and the dirt.
They saw their last days, that they did, at the end of the hangman’s rope it was, and all in vain as they hunted for my coin.
For I traveled far and wide and never sought a vault or home, and always were the paths and fields my friends.
And there among my friends below the unassuming flowers, there they grow above my many hoards of coin.
An April prompt response.