Thief

‘Twas the music of her emotion,

and the poetry of her deeds

what allowed the little thief

to slip in and steal my seed.

 

She secreted her gain

in the Willows of her womb

and grew a fetching child

who haunts our empty rooms.

 

Oft times, I hate the thief

yet forgive her godly theft,

and some days, I find the grace

to share the treasure I possess.

 

Monkish, I am not

nor sainted by celestial decree.

By whim, I don a mantle;

The robes of the royal three.

 

The judge, jury and executioner

is a trinity without fashion;

Birthed by the sins of man

to curb life’s little passions.

 

The thief I judged to harshly.

And as jury, I spoke with heat.

And in my pain, I did banish

and execute her ordained retreat.

 

Now in the theatre that is my mind,

the thief becomes a martyr,

whom I banished to the shadows

after gifting me a daughter.

 

I laugh as I acknowledge

that indeed I am no saint

and pray at the cosmic altar

that my daughter escapes my taint.

 

And, should my progeny decide

to become this thief of hearts,

then I find it far preferred

to a life of missing parts.