Poetry

Set it in silver! Gold won't do, I fear. Evening light in my eyes, facets, blue and white surround, and nearly blinded in tears, I stand before a gem unlike any other. And six prongs I say, sterling, to make old Chuck Lewis proud, Six prongs to the heavens and, surely, they'll call me the King of Diamonds. Pride does not suit me. Now I see the trouble, with light's last glimmer, I see them finally, cleavers of black stone, they slash the crystal palace. It crumbles, and I know this place does not long-linger -- And it was never mine to take. Set it in silver, brought to my knees I say, No prongs to the firmament, but a simple silver plate. An image reflects, flat and clear. Now I pray, let it be yours, at least for a while.