I Sit a Thief Among Saints

Voices come from different directions,
And I'm struggling to comprehend
How I could be blessed with such remarkable souls
Every day to call my friends.

And in your veins flows liquid gold,
Your bones crafted from the divinest dust;
I know my bronze won't articulate this
But I feel as though I must


I'm trying to bleed blood from a stone,
And see, even that line was
So ordinary –
A simple metaphor
You've heard a million times before.

But what I'm trying to explain,
With my words so poorly
Held together with rusted, crooked nails,
Is that your words drape themselves in my mind,
And your rhyme never fails
To move me
To overwhelming love
And the mockery of hatred,
Only flung in jest,
And just the smallest amount
Of petty envy.

I sit a thief amongst saints,
A peasant among lords,
But that's okay,
For it's all my lines can afford.

I am just so happy,
To be let in through the door,
To a chamber so gilded with finery,
To a world of eloquence
I would be happy to drown in