GOLD
Shimmering like the first rays of dawn
Sitting strong as a stone.
Ore
with a vein of gold
Born in a supernova
when stars collide.
I fell to Earth
in an asteroid.
Deep in her core
I grew
in hot molten lava.
The Earth quakes
and tectonic plates collide.
What is born of fire is indestructible.
A heart of stone.
A heart of gold.
The precious stone
discovered, in a pure state
a sparkle catches the eye
the golden glint blinds.
They dig and chisel
and chip away.
Blast the mountain
till she cracks open.
Quarry deep to the core.
The Mother lode.
See her shine through the dark.
The glittering blinds.
This symbol of love
and piety and power.
To be coveted, horded
and hidden away.
Treasured.
Alchemy.
The process.
The pounding and grinding
fire and purifying
refined.
Really make her shine.
Malleable and smooth.
The golden chalice.
Gold rings.
A gold watch
that stands the test of time.
A shapeshifter
that forever shines.
I am GOLD.
Created when stars collide.
What is born of fire is indestructible.
I shimmer and glimmer
sparkle and shine
till the end of time.
About the Creator
Diane Albright
I am a "Flower Child" growing wild. My roots are deep in the Mother Earth. I bask in the golden sunshine and drink in the rain. It is a long tumultuous road on the "Hero's Journey" to discover my true self, my purpose and passion.
Keep reading
More stories from Diane Albright and writers in Poets and other communities.
Sophie's List
Sophie’s List Deep in the ole forest, where the trees are tall and wide, and their branches touch the sky sits a tiny wood cottage. The crone, Ava, is chopping a fallen, dead, birch tree into logs. She takes a breath, exhaling mist in the early autumn afternoon, she throws her long, silver braid back over her shoulder, raises the long-handled axe over her head, humming a soulful ancient song: she lets the axe fall, cutting deep into the tree with guttural “Hu” she strikes again and again, until the logs roll apart. She gathers up five pieces in her arms, hugging them close to her body, she carries them to the small cottage, pushes the crooked door open with her round hip; she is struggling to get through the tiny door, when her daughter, Sophie, opens it behind her.
By Diane Albright4 years ago in Fiction
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