The Thief

in poetry •  7 years ago 

Thief, in truth, thief, obscure, fastened; he watched

women and men, children and old, leaves, windows, lamps,

old guitars, sewing machines, dry branches, itself.

He constantly flew

an attitude, an expression, the cigarette butts thrown into the street,

their clothes, when they undressed in the hour of love, their thought,

their ignored forms, theirs, his, and

large, curious bouquets or planting pots. Now,

at the local flower shop, behind the window, he was seen

spray the big roses, the dahlias, the carnations with the trunk

without selling or offering them; - an original thief,

a decadent prince in the depths of his greenhouse. Only his face,

pale, stood out among the very high lilies,

like a dead man in his glass coffin. However,

during the cold winters, this store of flowers with flowers not sold,

always gave us the impression of an eternal spring; even if we learned later

that all these flowers were of paper, painted

to red and yellow paint - rather red - of different tones.
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Source:Pixabay.com

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You did a great job in this poem, talking about things a thief takes note of. It's not really easy putting oneself in a shoes of another and really describing what goes on in their mind but you did it nicely.

Thanks mate im glad you took your time to read it

Wow. Wise one. I love how you made use of your tag option. Great write-up dear

Thanks mentor
Im still learning!

Am not a poetry fan, but this is cool....

Glad you read it

Nice piece.. I love the use of words, it's captivating and engaging..

Thanks dear

Nice one dear. awesome you did nice job

Thank you sir

Nice one dear

Thank you