Waking to your golden fields, too late for second chances,
clenching fists and eyes tightly shut, to preserve stolen glances,
etched into memory and found buried, as unsavory ivory carvings, the happenstance was horrific, but the deep result stains the present, and it cannot be transferred or sold, my little illicit idol in a land of no graven images.
I'll keep it, painful and troublesome as it may be. The currency that defines its value exists only in the countries of my heart, and while you are still legal tender here, counterfeiting is not a crime.