My touch is [gold], and...

I see nothing but my own fall. 

I see nothing but how much I hurt the ones I touch.

My touch is [gold] but it isn't as near as a blessing.

I sit on my house made of [gold]. Alone.

So many [golden] statues around me, and still, the house feels so empty.

I hate [gold]. The colour makes me SICK.

It feels sour to suffer from your own greed. 

All I can do is cry as I am immune from my own so called 'blessing', still, the sword feels so heavy I cannot bring myself to lift it.

Now I shall suffer alone, the loneliness consuming me whole, and still...

My touch is [gold].