Mr. Monopoly

So dear, why is it that when I am quiet you complain?
If the only taste that leaves my mouth is bittersweet?
I think my silence is golden to you,
Like the thread of time gliding nebulously through belts of asteroids.
Ending in the confines of an inescapable singularity.
It is golden.
Like the roll of the dice as the tiny cubes defy the substance of probability.
It is golden.
Like the beauty in the symmetry of pine trees.
Or the essence of the sideways 8.
Or, better yet, the warmth of a lover’s hand in the palm of one’s own.
All of it golden.
And not gilded gold either, but the kind of gold that was only made in Nowhere.
The kind of gold that cannot be bought because it doesn’t readily exist.
And yet you ask me to speak to you of my finer feelings.
The ones that are only explained when you prove them
Through the things that speak for themselves.
Well you know, I know a gent named Mister Monopoly.
He’s got everything an Ebenezer would’ve wanted.
But he has not an ounce of speech.
He does not know what is golden.
And that in itself is golden because
What’s golden to me is, simply put,
You.