What Bleeds The Tranquility

As I wander through these barren streets,

Beholding this dead town, graffiti

Scrawled on the lifeless edifices

All tell the tale of the Thief that 

Absconded my Identity.

I continue my journey, wading through

The trash and debris of this city,

Trying to find the Brigand;

Grasping his note, I try to read it,

But the words are obscure—

His instructions I can no longer see

To find my Face again.

Beyond the boundaries of the city,

I find a cemetery, edifices and memorials

Of those long gone;

But the headstones are illegible,

For time and weather have had their way

With the gravestones.

Upon one tombstone, I see, sits another note

Held in place by a black rose;

I try to read the note, but all I can see

Is a single word: tree.

I see a charred tree in the distance,

Sitting upon a small knoll;

I approach the hill, a tremble setting

In my hands.

I approach the tree, to find the

Rustler sitting beneath the branches,

But my worst fears have come true:

I am the Thief.