A largely symbolic piece of social commentary
They're One of a Kind.
You can find them in the perfume aisle, below the rows of Promises.
Their bottles line the shelves in odd shapes and colours, catching the light.
I run my hand along the shelf, Hopes and Dreams fall and shatter to their brilliant deaths
exposing the molten liquid common to them all:
gold, everywhere the glint of gold.
It lolls and inches its way to an unseen destination, rejecting all our tears of Understanding.
I follow its journey on my naked red feet, eager to see the end.
We tumble together over the stairs, snapping and cracking our Prejudices.
Yet the gold moves on, sweeping all self.
Limited by liberty, consumed by freedom, it takes no prisoner.
It halts, morbidly content of its meal.
I crawl onwards through the slick mess, crazed by the beauty.
Trembling hands turn the tap, and I watch it all drain.
I gaze once again into the mirror.
We're all the same.