Sarah Stewart Arts | The Thief
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The Thief

The thief he spoke in compliments, in riddles and sideways glances

Had me wondering what romance is…

– With a thief

Stolen time,  (no, freely given)

He wears so well understated and underdressed

Why can’t I join the throng and be thoroughly unimpressed- with this professor of love unprofessed?

Instead I wander from potential to kinetic and fill the void with what ifs and other such pathetic

Reverie never reaching an understanding with this thief

Never mind – there is nothing there to find

But what was that he said?  Is this evidence of affection or is it all just in my head?

These are the thoughts that keep me wide awake instead of finding solace in the somnolence of bed

Photostatic copy of my own thoughts with a different filter-

He’s a new lens- same story and charmingly off kilter…

Is this him again just in different skin?

Another insincere bowman taking aim

or a coward playing a careless game of intellectual hit and run

– half won just the same!

He is but an apparition, a vaporous illumination of my own imagination

With no title no references no merit or station to deserve our weekly meeting in a war of attrition

How can something so tangible take meaningful shape within my soul-

And yet hang as immaterial as a name spoken in an empty room?

A shadow is seen but never in  the light -so is it real?

Strange rules of engagement and when this night is over I will need a new arrangement

He lets out just enough light to catch me and reach me-

Days later the sound and shape in absentia still preach to me

In sermons of scattered colors and sacred geometry

– he’s a cultured thief

Within my heart a prison (no, prism)

I keep the prize close to my chest, a heart not won, that mocks in jest my heads adoration of a thief

Whom I will never properly care for –never hold his face in my hands or utter a single prayer for

Consciously from the start I followed this blind shepherd into the dark

Now I’m reeling in what he could never treasure

A heart, mind, soul wide open- love without measure or angles or sideways glances-

No intellectual fodder will feed this fire- No more bait (no debate)

I’m FEARLESS in love and take my chances-

I know what true romances is-

And what it is not

Like my pitiful propensity to connect dots:

Compliments into a constellation

Hoping that it spells “L O V E”

And still he calls out from a lonely place

I know every line and wrinkle in that handsome beggar’s face-

Unreachable, unteachable

And closed

A riddling thief forever I suppose? Always smiling and slowly dying…

I don’t speak constellation

And I’m done trying!

There is a space next to me for a fiend (or a friend) -whichever you be-

But make up your mind

Is it next to me?

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