Did you hear me? You, yourself, are made of gold.
Pure and simple,
Your dented surface illuminates the flaws of others happily,
But though you are lusted after,
You are fragile,
Vulnerable in your innocence.
Formed and created,
Forced and changed of your forms,
Abounding in nuggets of sweet being.
Let the Earth push you out,
You are her child,
Be proud to be so.
Let them take you,
Use you in their games,
Let them bend you,
Break you if they can.
That you can bring joy to so many by such,
But do you have a purpose?
A use or goal in this bewildered world?
Your brothers and sisters are sent out to work in the morning,
And you sit, on a limb, or bed of velvet,
Simply shining away, without sense of period, or age.
Age leaves no mark on you,
And when your fellow form the dark red of time,
Still you sit,
Lazy by the widened eyes that stare and want.
Amorphous, then smooth, then bent, perhaps,
Into some other shape or being,
But you, Oh Gold, have no purpose in this bewildered world.
Created: Nov 15, 2009Document Media