i know a man who steals.
slowly slipping treasures
into those darkened pockets
of a trenchcoat with no soul.  
tumbling down deeper,
further into an endless abyss
so that if i ever may find him
and reach into those pockets
my fingers will reach out
and merely graze the felted sides
and the emptiness below.
he will flash a crooked smile
with eyes full of mischief
and simply laugh at my endeavor,
"girl, those arms of yours
will never grow again
never be able to grasp
all that you seek."
and as tricky as he may be
he will fail to see the strength
that hides in this heart of mine.
a spirit that tears the stitching
of a conniving crook's pocket
from his very own coat.
everything of mine once stolen
-- my happiness
-- my imagination
-- my willpower
will soon be returned
as it was many years before.
the man's name was age.