A Stolen Sonnet

I cannot point finger at he or she;
The scapegoat for my blame by now long gone.
I cannot point at anyone, not me–
I cannot learn his name by now or dawn.
Settled in sky, the moon is highly pitched,
Equally far away lingers my chance,
Discover what remains no longer rich,
Someone away has stolen abundance.
The open cupboard doors reveal the loss;
Abhorrent are the things a thief will steal.
Not food nor wine nor money, things of cost,
For what he stole from me, incorporeal.
Forever count the days til peace of mind,
That thief better be found and bound and blind!

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