A thief creeps along between the seams of darkness and light.
He can feel without touching, breathe without inhaling.
His presence is acknowledged, but it is unseen. Unfelt. Unheard.
A knock on the window. Hollow and small, hollow and small.

Flashing sound, a window’s whimper, an awakened hush.
You can’t feel the flower that grows in the dark.
His glances glaze floorboards and beams.
They pierce the dreams of violet.
But a puncture never hurts as much as a wound.
Deep and round, round and skinny.

The thief browses a library of color. Dry and dusky. Flat and sad.
His fingers play chords. Paint the room, darling. Paint it black.
Voiceless echoes of thought and purity; dusty pursuits of clarity and nonsense.
A voice is wordless, it doesn't resonate in thin air. Or resonates at all.

Weave the thread, darling.

Forked roads take time to find destinations.
The thief knows this, the thief knows.

He travels between darkness; the light is scared, scared of

Scared of

the Thief.