Thief.

Illuminate me, if only for a moment. I expect that in this dismal darkness, stalks the thief we fear.

Sleight of hand his tempered blade, silent steps may traverse the expanse, but these feet of mine shall stumble.

Apparition in the eye, of the mind, who could dream of such a thing?

If I called for mercy, would the echo fly? Will it return lonely? Or come bearing the resounding no of deaths indifferent whisper.

Are we but pennies in the pockets of a thief? Forgotten and uncounted, the tedious protest of our collective strength, nothing but a tiresome jingle, at best vexatious.

Do we shroud ourselves in lint, perpetually imperturbable, waiting for the greasy hand of god to pluck us one by one and measure our worth in the condemnatory light of day?

Those golden blinding rays will radiate, passing judgment, giving place, sorting rank.

Why should we argue? Predetermined is our story and perhaps we are for the better.

For who is burdened more?

The coin?

Acquired and spent, such cyclical nature poses little threat, as change shall never rain and so acceptance is but a mere transaction.

The thief?

Whose hands must always plunder, whose mind can never rest, whose meals are scarce and lacking.

He who spends the coin, must seek the coin, live by the coin and perish before its finite beauty.

I find in these moments, illuminated, our jingle is resolute and we shall forever live in the haunting choir of the thief’s darkened, guilty pockets.

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