I'm not really sure if this is poetry or not, but someone told me to write about a golden knife. So, here is my attempt:
It's blade is heavy, sharpened to a razor's edge.
It glints like the summer sun reflecting from a pool of water,
amongst rippling waves.
The color itself is magnificent,
one that I would not like stripped from my vision.
The grip is nice, waving slightly,
as if it was made just for my fingers,
no one else's.
My eyes burn with greed; They never want to leave
this magnificent piece of art.
I must stay my hand,
out of sheer delight.
