The I Snatcher
There is somebody on the street, just now, with a net, and a claw, and a hammer, waiting for the next vulnerable soul to wander near enough
to listen to the nondescript muttering of a voice in palm, and a head under foot, wondering what to do with this strange view through dry eyes
the somebody has bags of tricks, clever enough to show any devil the line,
eyes sincere enough to make even the wanderer cry
and isn't it the voice, the wandering soul longs for, which brings tears back to life, no matter what color the river is born from, or what it becomes after sunset?
the wanderer wonders this -is a moment of security priceless in this fragile place of existence? and the one who waits on the street knows this
If I place your eyes back into your head, you will forget how denial is the ground for evils lurk!
just a moment like that, and something is lost
that will only return when fright is back with the night.
To think to yourself a gypsy could know your name
to think to yourself a meditation could save your soul
to think to yourself a reverence for any feeling could evolve you
what feeling is this?
A bodily one?
A circular motion from head to toe?
A tingle in your gut, or your sacrum?
A despicable laugh through crooked teeth
could do you much better
if only you could acknowledge how crooked
your teeth have become
The body snatcher is dead
the soul snatcher is gone
the spirit snatcher is near
but the "I" snatcher is here
