The Eyes of Thieves

A poem about the relationship between reader and writer.

There is a spectrum that I have traversed.

There is a range and a roundabout.

There is a terrain and a mining of every vein.

There is a spectrum to the emotions and depth of imagination.

            Suffer as I do, not all these journeys hurt

            But my existence is narrowed

            As all I am are the few that speak to you.

 

And it seems that any reader still scanning through these syllables

Is spoken to by my melancholy and delving into the areas of pain.

We’re intimate, well-versed, and well-documented,

For pain is a vehicle lined in flesh and bleeding of ink,

            And the victim is seen as only the damage,

            And the terrain recedes to a desired vein,

            As you find comfort from the words of an artist on the brink.

 

As we have all been waiting for company in the hollows in which we dwell.

As you have all been in waiting for wisdom from out there in that wilderness.

And you’re the thief for using these words to not feel so alone

When all you needed was to not leave the artist on their own.