The Shadow's Share

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Did you call me a cat burglar, sharp and sly,
While I was merely a shadow thief passing by?
In the cloak of night, I slipped through cracks unseen,
A whisper in the darkness, where few have been.

A rustle in the alley, another shadow so slight,
Not a whisper of wind, but a flicker of night.
Too small for the pickets, too quick for the eye,
A little thief, just learning to fly.

You cast your stones with reckless disdain,
Labeling shadows, whispering of gain.
But in the quiet, behind your glare,
I move unnoticed, with neither a stare nor care.
And I saw the small one, with hunger's sharp plea,
Taking what's needed, just yearning to be.

For shadows are the silent witnesses of truth,
They hide the stories, the hopes, the ruth.
Not thieves by nature, but keepers of secrets deep,
Guarding the silence, while the powerful sleep.
The baker's warm crust, an apple that rolled,
A silent victory, a story untold.

Politicians, with their words like chains,
Paint shadows with blame, with empty refrains.
Yet in their glare, they fail to see,
The shadow’s dance—so fluid, so free.
They didn't see winter, the frost in his breath,
The gnawing companion, on the thin edge of death.

I am the whisper beneath the throne,
The unseen hand, the undertone.
Not a thief of gold or silver, but a keeper of the unseen,
The silent witness to what might have been.
Like the sparrows, he learns, to take what is due,
And disappear swiftly, from eyes old and new.

So call me what you will, a shadow thief or ghost,
But in my silent flight, I value the most—
The truth unspoken, the hidden lore,
The stories that shadows silently store.
For in the darkness, truths reside,
In shadows’ embrace, they often hide—
And though you call me a thief in jest or spite,
I am merely the keeper of the unseen light,
Watching over those who, like me, find their way in the night.

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