Pickpockets. Poem by Owain Glyn

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? ? .....
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn