THIEVES OF MAY oil on panel 18in. x 18in. ±45.7cm. x 45.7cm. ARTIST'S WRITING CLOSER DETAILS
THIEVES OF MAY As nurture takes a turn, the trees they cast more shade The seeds they grow through gravel, rapt children raise away Memories of pulled flowers, memories breed as prey It's hotter, it's harder In the early days of May Time is our own torture, feared thoughts of one lifespan Youth is long and lasting, yet short and sweet and damned Time speeds through what follows, and seeks its days unplanned This is why it wills With such a wicked hand Low skies, rose skin, clouds bitter white with wind Bewildered by the sorrows; these black shapes, stealing from within Like objects, we hold them, as ink inside this pen They pose the past as been As greed to start again The thieves of May are sly, drifting towards the lonely The heart draws weak the chin; wounded, longing, slowly Pain lightly draped in need, bandaged by the ghostly Strangers, unknowing Phantoms gaining closely The falseness of this dressing is a cure that's unaligned Cries written, bold fiction, torn papers left unsigned Shattered by compassion, just one thought rings defined Let go, let go, let go And leave the past behind These trees are not so high, the roots have not yet dried Children move through time, but never leave our side Write our names as scripted, as love that stings inside Set free the thieves of May As love that never died