I am a liar and a thief.
I steal words and images from others,
From the fingers of the world,
Which, wrapped around the warped nature of lovers,
the true soul of life,
And of the mother's heart,
where true love begins,
Press and fret not the strings of sound,
Of music that sings between the trees,
That baritones through the ground;
No, these fingers cover my holes,
Obscure my failings,
Allow me to pipe one last stolen tune -
Poetry, we call it.
We will never deserve such a gift.