Poetry of Issue #7        Page 5

A bit of this, a bit of that

Pardon me, but I must steal
a little bit of this day
and you in it
to feed this addiction
that plagues me.

Night, when others sleep,
and I must write
about those things,
pieces of lives
collected through the day,
mold them into
something else,
not a picture,
not a recording,
something new,
but ancient
and as difficult
to understand
as marks made
on stones found
beneath burning sands.