I call you Midas, like the king with the golden touch.

A gift to turn all you come into contact with into prizes of gold, like you do. In simple gestures of smiles and laughter, that lifts the atmosphere, and brightens the gloom. In the mean determination to turn your work into gold. And you do. You have a heart of gold.

You keep your garden of pristine roses away from the world; your most prized possession. A secret, a story, an emotion in every rose. Only you would dare walk through the garden of thorns, knowing they could cut you, knowing every cut was just a revisit to a moment passed. You take a walk through the garden, each time in contemplation or in search of some revelation; each time the garden grew in the number of roses.

A kind heart, of fair judgment, and noble air. A mind to skit across thoughts that need not bother you, and only delve into the deepest that drown you. A heart of gold… and heart hardened like gold. You have touched your own heart to protect yourself.