Paul stole some prose.
It was not a catch phrase.

He stole a floodlight.
It illuminated nothing when off.

He gathered up cast-off clothing.
No one was left barefoot and naked.

Paul removed grace.
It was installed in a marble statue.

He removed a daguerreotype.
Its sepia tones tinted the landscape.

He assembled a woman.
A snake curled around her thigh.

The snake found no prose to speak.
The woman left ripened fruit untouched.

Knowledge fell to the ground.
Good and evil fermented under the sun.

Paul watched ants disassembled them.
The woman turned away from him.

He watched her leave his line of sight.
It was not an event horizon she crossed.

He gathered some moonbeams.
They illuminated nothing in daylight.

copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney