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The Thief

by Mike Acker

Blue tears run down her face,
a blue stolen from a sunny sky.

Her hair is black, the blackness
stripped from the middle of a night.

It forms a frame around her white face,
white fleeced from lofty clouds.

Her eyes, her green eyes,
a green only emeralds can surrender.

The tears ripple over glossy red lips,
their shiny redness from the blood of sheep.

Form alone has no color.
All is plunder, nothing hers.

Copyright © 2015 by Mike Acker

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