Plagiarist
Plagiarist
I stand at the corner
of the grave yard
Under the cover
of the pitch dark
Wait like a vulture
For the opportunity of
People's going out,
I covertly take out
The organs of good taste
From the dead body
And start to build
A new body
A new poem
I continue to steal
The flesh
The bone
The blood
The skin
And sew them
Till it becomes beautiful
And ready to publish
I am neither an employee
Of the necropsy
Nor a florist,
Not even an artist.
I am only a plagiarist.
The poem becomes mine.
Though the soul of it
Is of another poet
Which I never acknowledge
Or express regret.
poem by Abdul Wahab
Added by Poetry Lover
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