Steal everything you have ever loved.
Set it to another verse
of borrowed phrases
and humble pie.
Somewhere in the spaces
between the song-writer's ohm
and the poet's demise,
others will form your stolen loot,
your dead-sea scrolls,
into the multitude of inspiration
that constitutes your Self.
The banks are running dry.
All freedom is restrained
to the ticking of a box
and the punching of a clock.
There is no shame in stealing
a resonant thought.
It is the way Revolution happens,
an idea projected, then repeated,
repeated, re-written and spoken
in one thousand tongues.
If your lover leaves you,
it is nothing special.
Yet if a stranger's words steal your breath,
stripped to a naked consciousness,
you have every right to pilfer their mind,
to bridge understanding,
to share in a longing,
to replicate a sentence
in which truth was left unconfined.