Green Cushion

I felt few sparks of gems reflecting into my soul, dreams, lives, like fire one selves would try to burn. The deeper I try to hide them towards more searching and more wondering I turn. Could I be a thief, an outlaw? Could one be able to steal own soul then offer it for free at world's stretching factory for its diligent workers to strike it, making it wider and louder than it ever been thin enough to be brought to a tailor to make of it a greatly needed thing: For the fall from my wall a protection cushion with soften wisdom filled.