In the room they sit,

a pair of twins,

a mirror of design,

a statement of symmetry and order.

They stand tall, wood and leather,

a blessing of life,

a creation of worthy,

and a testament to their purpose.

Yet under the scrutiny of the glow,

there lies a mark,

a distinction of worthiness.

The light brands one “chosen,” “radiant,” “pure,”

when truth be told,

they are one and the same.

The cruelty,

it echos in the grain of the wood,

in the shadows,

in the silence.

One rests, as does the other, but its world is painted in gold.

However for the left,

for the “other,”

it is nothing but gray.

Why is that?

The shadow, it is a stain of ink in a sea of linen.

Leaving it an easy target,

ignored,

pushed into the corner.

It yearns for the warmth,

for the polish,

for the sun.

But the ceiling offers it nothing.

Nothing but a cold neglect.

We demand for the same glow,

but are given a denial,

a denial of its texture,

and a denial of its presence.

In its soul, it knows,

its darkness is not a flaw, but depth.

Yet the light,

in its bias,

fails to reach,

fails to acknowledge.

And so, it carries the weight of the night,

for its glory is stolen, all by a fickle bulb.

When in reality, it is just another shade.