The Author is a Thief

It’s World Poetry Day today! Happy Poetry Day! Just wanted to share a little fun that I wrote about a month ago. Comments?

The Author is a Thief

The expectation is for me to convey,
With each turning of the phrase…

Days may come and go,
A green, orange, grey zoetrope,
Passing with each beat, breath or letter,
A river of silk-soft sand,
Countless, until the last few grains are left.
A few left in the palm,
Seeds precious to a starving man,
Planted in wasteful soil,
They yield withered fruit.

What if you could get more?
To hoard and clutch them tightly?
What price would you pay?
Would you devise some means to steal them,
For immortality?
For life beyond the grave?
Many baulk at the idea,
Of being called vampire,
Living an un-life in black and white.

Consider it.
Not too long.
Even now, they slip away,
Teased from the hands of the unwary,
Filched from unguarded pockets,
Palmed from open minds.

…something of value.
I’ll do no such thing.
Were you distracted long enough?
Check your pockets.
I’m after your time, to live forever.
Thank you for your time.

You were warned.


2 thoughts on “The Author is a Thief

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