Here a labored writer sits
On a porch without a light
Sipping on empty wine glasses
And thieving from the night

I’ll take the star from the dark
I’ll steal that ghostly chill
I’ll even think the thoughts you’ve thunk,
(Especially the ones you ****)

I’ll creep inside the books you wrote,
(The quiet thoughts you’ve found)
I’ll lift the words right off your lips,
Steal the secrets of the sound

I’ll read the lines you wrote
(In a low yet steady mumble)
Then I’ll spew your thunder,
With no credit to your rumble

And from the shadows edges
With their crisp yet subtle blur
I’ll trace my fingers round until
I see their insides stir

So when your train goes off
And disintegrates in your head
Know it was not a fleeting thought,
Just a gaunt thief getting fed.