When you first put your arms around me,
I could feel the warmth of you.
I could trace the beat of your heart.
When your lips brushed mine,
And you smiled,
I was hypnotized, mesmerized.
When you turned and left,
I had no idea what I'd done wrong,
You were lost in the throng.
It was only then, I realized,
That your thin, cold, razor,
Had cut the strings of my heart,
That you had stolen it.
What value could it have been to you? ?
Then, I learned that you keep hearts as trophies.
I should tell you,
That while you were busy,
I secreted your heart,
In my pocket.
It now sits on a plinth, in my display cabinet.
Would you like to meet?
On a mist dressed bridge,
Early one morning?
Where, like guilty governments,
We can make an exchange? ? .....
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (PickPockets. by Owain Glyn )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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