You saw me cracked, a soft-colored thing, thin walls. You spackled my wounds with fool's gold, covering the holes with weak beauty, without substance. You made quickly with your cheap labor, coating over spaces but not filling between, and your gold looked good for Everyone. Maintenance wasn't what you signed up for.

I was working to melt down the karats of stronger brilliance when you took the flame from my hands to make sure the work was done to Your liking.

Your gold proved brittle, and I let it flake away as I take back my crucible and hold it beneath steady flame.