Confessions of a Pawn Shop

We are the forgotten and the discarded; the lost and the stolen.

We were once the promise of young love or the permanent reminder of love lost.

Now, we sparkle and glitter behind gritty, security glass and its bright, gaudy frame of discount stickers.

We whore ourselves to passers-by, playing on our strengths as best we can.

Dimly glinting under grey clouds to remind you of holidays gone by:

Golden wheat fields, glorious sunshine, blue skies and green seas.

We long to be taken home and treasured once again:

Found between two lovers over a candlelit dinner,

Or welcoming a newborn to a hospital ward.

You see, together we are the very best of people, and the very worst.

It has always been the way for precious metals.

Our journeys have led us here through tales of treachery and woe.

Some of us were stolen violently or in moments of sneaky opportunism.

Others were traded for a month’s rent, or sold from shaky hands for a quick fix.

Impatiently we wait remembering, attempting to relive our past lives.

Though try as we may, it is not as easy to recall outside memories as time ticks on.

And how are we to lure you with impressions of golden wheat and glorious sunshine, if we cannot remember them ourselves?

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