Following the crooked pavement
that is set in the street
like a broken arm in
plaster of paris.
We steal the smiles from
the people plastered on
the sidewalks like thieves
in the night.

Stealing the hope from children.
Stealing music from the pages
like a third-rate pop artist.

Sneaking past sirens that
try to lull us from the
road less traveled.
Sirens that blare in the night
like ghosts in the hall.
Singing songs trying to serenade
the kleptomania from my
soul.