The Poet-Thief

I am the hidden poet.
I observe you as you go by:
You do not notice.
I take your face, your body,
The way you walk or fidget,
Which you thought belonged to you.
I steal them for myself,
And capture them within the ink marks on my page,
And call them mine.

I steal the firey sunset;
The waves that crash against the rocks;
The song of the bluebird;
The fury of a swirling tornado;
And imprison them within my poems.

The world is mine:
All that I see,
All that I hear,
All that I touch, or taste,
Become my possessions.

All that I experience I steal,
And keep as memories,
And take them with me to my grave.
None can steal them from me,
But they can steal their own:
For we can all share in the beauty of the stars,
Or the buzzing of a mosquito,
Or the scent of a rose.

Do not fear the poet-thief:
I steal the universe for my poems
But, through my words,
I share my universe with you.

Summer 1998