When I pen <br />I steal from God <br />or rather like a mother <br />he spares the wonders <br />for me to treasure <br />giving me the joy <br />of having something as my own <br />though everything is his <br />just letting me allow <br />the delight of possession <br />the sweet verses <br />I steal from his purse <br />where he has locked in <br />some morning dew and mellowed nectar <br />the lyrics of sadness <br />I steal from his looks <br />they have the touch of <br />a missing mother's sighs <br />the lingering muse <br />I steal from his disguised smiles <br />his mysterious poise <br />I ink with a space <br />his love and compassion <br />I sympathise with as mine <br />In short, I have nothing my own <br />yet I am proud of everything unknown <br />that I have stolen <br />and decked my house alone.<br /><br />lalitha iyer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stealing-from-god/
