The Final Confession of a Thief

Dusky lavender smeared the sky
As if Lord Vastar's palate
Was all ash and shadow
And down the city lane
Like a proud foal on untested legs
Sauntered a young man
No more or less callow
Than a sapling in early Scarlatan.
Home from the Ram's Horn
Sauntered he, as a bee
From a wildflower meadow:
Meandering beneath the weight
Of his nectar's golden revelry.

Threadbare as his pockets were
I let him pass my vantage
Unmolested and merely watched
From the darkened alley-way
Whence, like a living shred of shadow,
Oft I slipped out undetected,
Stitched myself with threads of twilight
Deep in pockets unprotected
And became a wanton guest,
However unexpected,
Of whomever passed me by.
But this night beneath the lamps
Of Spirit Lane, I stood and wondered
If this fellow had a name...

And if so, could it be heard
As the darkness of an evening's peaceful bliss
Was torn asunder
By a torpid cry of passion
When from his lover's lips
Dripped the final gasp of pleasure?

Or would his name be on the tongues
Of bouncing boys and girls
As they greeted him, come sunrise,
While his head like thunder pounded
And his hangover unfurled?

I let him pass my vantage
And walk on down the lane.
Then I left my shadowed alley
Never to return again.


Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Ero, in the year 427 AF.