The Word Thief
(I've been holding this thought for a day,
maybe two
There are more things to do
than just rhyme all the time)
He pilfers passages from people's pronouncements
Carefully culling, cutting, compiling.
To him they're more mosaics made momentarily
Hard to harvest, heard in his head, but hastening away.
He casts his net--a notebook--upon noticing nuggets
That come his way
Barely brought in by the bumbling hand,
harvested in hastily handwritten heaps.
Now and then they thicken into these thoughts,
and he assembles almost all, allowing few to escape.
They're his for a while, within what he's written,
then they go, glowing--but going, then gone.
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