The package stood in the shimmering night,
by Glen Cherrington
as if held fast, in the lunar light.
It's contents were poison to a person like me,
a harness of shackles devoid of a key.
"A gift of faith!" you say with a grin,
but I now of a sweeter hell I'd rather be in.
I accept with remorse, the pacifist's pain,
and take on your troubles with little to gain.
I am meant for better rewards,
than plastic wall plaques and butterfly boards.
You say I am gold, and worth so much more,
I say I am you, who eats off the floor.
You know when I am a low, and it makes you so high.
To see me rejected puts a gleam in your eye.
We feed off each other, devouring pain,
like mirror reflections we're bonded in vain.
Still, I find amusement in he things that you do,
we often shared joy for a moment of two.
WE are called friends, as odd as it seems,
we will share everything, but never out dreams.