February 7, 2017 by petrujviljoen
I offered you my past. Stupid, naive, blind. Meant it as a gift. To aid your understanding; your insight into the condition of another. A Child. You took it. You added grit. Kneaded it into a consistency of your own likeness. You let it harden over a period of time. Then you stoned me with it.
When I came to I got up from where I was felled. I’ve grown beyond the point where I remain. Soiled. I’m tired, though. There’s another room in my house.
Awash with silver
gifted light of summer’s moon –
lead softens to gold