PRISONER OF TIME 1 © 2007

I have a habit of stealing,

Words in sequence,

In praise of the moment,

Of influence.

And in song,

Reducing by shortcut,

What exists within me scarce,

Transforming into verses that are worth.

Each word, a stolen treasure,

In the melody of thought,

A piece of me, shaped,

By the moment of inspiration and movement.

Stealing syllables from the wind,

And turning them into rhyme,

I create a song that is a lament,

And at the same time, my fate.

In the scarcity of who I am, i find richness in each phrase,

And in this game of words, my soul remakes itself,

Even if little remains of me,

I still find a way to shine.

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