They wrote about you.
Named you Goddess and  
Lifted you high above the

Imagined boundaries of your
Spirit and ***.
No longer seeming as little as

You always felt. Well...
The rains came; you became
Umbrella.

Cinderella's indecisive cousin.
Wet now, and not in the
Good, hot way.

Workmen's sweat fresh from
Frustrated chests upon your ever
Forgiving back.

Heathens in the temple.
Berserkers in the
Cathedral.

Male pens, shovels and clamps
Made for grabbing and digging,
Holding up towards God's Skies

And proclaiming, not "Her,"
But: "Mine!"
I've seen it as it is.

Oh, I know. I've been a lifter.
Shoving goddesses into brick sized
Holes, praising the solid

Wall.
You deserve better. Take it from
Iron:

There is not enough
Gold in your
Life.