The Stolen Pen

With whose stolen pen is it my hand writes?

On my page, where art and theft lie so blurred:

From an unlived life, rich with unseen sights,

Of tales yet untold and best left unheard.

I scour pale streets, dredge gutters for a thought,

To steal a city’s aches I’ve yet to feel,

To speak from the heart, knowing brittle naught,

To wear our home, crushing, as my ordeal.

Bestrode two lands, I chart a middling path,

That none I seek to call peers likely walked,

Steeped in mildness, devoid of poor luck’s wrath,

I tread freely, where better folk were blocked.

I beg this pen roar home’s pains unspoken,

Lest my voice permit silence unbroken.