The Broken Heart Of A Thief

The thief’s heart broke

When sleight of hand failed

To hold onto his refuge

Inside another’s care.

Cold-empassioned power

Over objects he desired

Dissevered him form owning

Up to his affairs.

Compassion held at length,

Practiced sparingly at best,

Serves a frigid education

On attatchment’s frail grasp.

Cleverness and cunning

And other secrets of the craft

Stole nothing more than money,

Indifferent to the last.

Clasped in no one’s arms

And kissed by nothing’s lips

To procure another hour

In which to exist.

The theif consumed a fifth,

Broke the bottle, cut his flesh,

Threw himself through fire

Till he physically was numb,

But the bleeding never ceased

In the lovelessness of loss,

His temper always burning,

Wishing feeling would be done.

At length, despair entrenches,

Cruelly cradled in its womb

With his temper snuffed to ashes

And abrasions scabbed away.

To live or not to live,

To steal and not to give,

Decisions made in silence

Over living on this way.

Is it some force of fate

That the labor he hates

Is the credit he desires

Now that all else is dead?

He begs for bitter toil

As a mercy to his hate,

Hoping somehow to be healed

From his existential dread.

The thief turned to begger,

Not for money or relief,

But for service to another

For submission to defeat.

Humbled in desperation,

Pleading to be re-loved,

Bleating for a shelter

Possessed at someone’s feet.

The heart hurt more than hunger,

The misery worse than rage,

The spleandor of his plunder,

The thief, for love, would trade.