buried in gold

 Something - that tells you,

the colors have meaning in such,
dying yet private reflection's.
How beautiful is it,
that perfect illusion of those
imaginary moments,
where we are no longer required.
Sitting, there without reason
but a choice to withstand the whisper
of hot hot air, only to calm the memory
of a present so distant rare it is.
Of a gold in images,
that the mind cannot speak to them. . .
that those images are real,
but not in the moment that experience mattered.
Only after, the thought of how in case I added,
a beauty all my own.
I sat there buried in gold.