Riches of Sorts

The golden throne detailed chair,
draped over with golden hair,
hand lifeless hanging down,
head wrapped by sparkling crown,
atop the darkness cracks the ceiling,
falling pieces after they were unpeeling,
crashing down heavy stone,
luckily being completely alone,
smaller pieces turn to dust,
metal of the swords now rust,
nothing left to see with no light,
being the darkest of the night,
not even a star is seen outside,
across the horizon far and wide,
the last of the bricks covered in vine,
at one point it was all mine,
still is but now broken and old,
now the riches being stained gold,
a memory to modern carved by hand,
now just bones and rags buried in the land.