[10] I AM A THIEF WITH HALF A HEART
These words run out faster
with a broken pen, ink splattering,
smudges unneat. I tie them to
my strings so plucking won't
be a chore. But these days,
they have an ocean before them
and suddenly they are twice as hard
to catch. I'm donating half a heart
for an ugly truth that they're
s l i p p i n g
a w a y
and my hands are painted
empty when they leave.
Yes, I am a thief good at robbery,
and I steal these words in exchange
for one instead of half,
for alive instead of dead.
And maybe my crimes would
drown me more than the ocean,
but I am half-dead
with a clean paper,
and I run.
YOU ARE READING
Witherland
PuisiAgain: precarious. When blood remains, I see the world tripping over the edge of the sword, red and forgotten. They drop, drop, drop-- balance. And we fall endlessly. [a poetry series by alice © 2017]
