Crazed by hunger; stupefied by time
Only if I could be as conscious of the pulse
As you are, love.
I am no Creator, no Master, no Inventor.
I am a thief, a potter.
Careless elegant conversation
shaped into words of running beauty
poems of water, mud, words and
Punctuation,
I read your mud caked letters off my palms.
You would recognise them,
The treasures you almost had to keep
But gave away so easily to me.
A scavenger-vulture
Who stole your words.
