I squeeze the sodden rags of my psyche for the last droplets to wet my parched mental
I cast my gaze left and right
frantically searching for the thief of my words
the giggling cackling vicious
snatches thoughts from my cradle
whisking them to never
and my thief her sister
whispers to me that there was nothing stolen at all
that this absence has always been there
and the many many messengers
had always the wrong addresses
my missives go to nil
they were not packaged and shipped
they were not stolen
they were not

Bo walks with me
his dark eyes hold a spark
the flicker of a candle in a pool of oil
his black gilt cane grasped with a firm jeweled hand
the thief and her sister in the corners of my vision
always so while I turn my head
amidst the deep green wood
where my dear Bo walks beside me