Perched on a yellow line,
a key wedged under her tongue.
for what I do not know.
by bottle brush tails,
and burnt orange coats.
Plenty of suitors,
come to play,
their throats wrapped in fluorescent scales.
But she is still in the dark.
There was this man,
a brave thing.
He was the lock to her key.
Writers are thieves in their own right,
taking eyes, lips, and hands for their own.
They steal beating hearts,
so their characters can long for the essence of another.
They pilfer garrulous lungs,
so their creations may breathe the words within them.
They abduct stubborn spines,
so their figures might find movement and heading.
A soul is the only thing they can’t pillage,
A soul is what they themselves create,
an entity that cannot be faked.