The Cost of Thieves They slither, parched dry whispers deep in the shadows of the brightest moonlit night. Doubt. Longing. The deepest insecurities. Snakes in the grass Of the most promising gardens. Forget the azaleas, Or the regal, silent, pride of sunflowers. Ignore the hibiscus, And the honeysuckle winds. They weave, They worm, Into the stoutest barriers. Parasitic to knowledge, Cancerous to memories, Insidious to passions. The husks left behind Can not even cry.