FINGERS My momentum quicken to a run, Concealed behind furs from the rays of the sun. I flicker into life towards a quiet house, My step almost as quiet as a scampering mouse. The house seemed dingy drained of life, A window easy to open with the insertion of a knife. The living room at least was of adequate size, Elaborate curtains fastened with ties. Silver spoons, candlesticks, my face turned to a grin, Toasting myself I down a glass of fiery gin. Filling a sack with these peoples abodes, I slip out quietly onto open roads. A barn seems an ideal place for my hoard, My stash hidden away behind a broken board. Police begin a search but find no trace, Of the mysterious burglar with no face. With no witnesses or ant clues, I drift away with my loot and tools. Across fields, woods, and muddy roads, Until once more my sack is filled with peoples abodes.Birth sign: Scorpio
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