Embezzling the sun of its heat,
sauntering down the
concrete.
Two bulbs shade decorated lids,
leaving some features exposed to
the public.
Man is perplexed about his own reflection,
flashing glimpses as if the bulbs were lit in
his direction.
Wrong he was.

The color, cut from the night sky,
gleams from a manufactured coat of
gloss.
No etch has made its mark
on the edges,
The plastic’s deceiving silver décor
twinkles,
hidden, making attempts to peep from behind
a forest of soft, angelic waves of amber.
No thought as to the history of the
guardian, sent with a stamp of satisfaction and
a promise of never returning to the great wall.