A thief a sneak a coward
hiding behind a twisted bastardization of the reverent
behind a gun and a mask
steals a precious jewel from the very hand
where it had been held and kept safe and
polished with dreams
a heart can be broken many times and weep tears of blood forever
and these hearts are yelling pleading
for this crying to be heard around the world
this song
this pain
are too familiar
in disgust and rage we shake our impotent fists and ask
did gender and innocence become a commodity to be traded at whim
for the glory of the sneakthieves and their miserable ilk
filling their coffers with blood money
spreading horror like manure in a field
while the broken sparrows are not noted
not counted
in a world which refuses to hear
the wailing of the stolen

Bring them back.



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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One Response to Stolen

  1. kamilica2002 says:

    Bring them back, please.

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