The Collector

They call me, Collector. 

Antiques, I say are best broken and scarred.
I find,
I search.
Sometimes, I hurt. 

I cut my finger, last week.
The inhuman, sculpture says to me,
“why, you asked for every piece”.

They call me, Collector.

Of names, and places
lives and stories.

I cannot but give in,
to helpless pleas. 
Paintings, that are snug, 
Incomplete, 
blurred. 
Yes, they call themselves Modern Art.
I find it interesting to look at their farce.

They call me, Collector.

Ideas, and words,
Of unsung heroes and underdogs.

I met one, beaten in an alley.
A carcass, that little mutt.
Repeated to myself,
I cannot give in. 

I can, not give in.

The cries, and tears pierced my heart.
I brought him home,
like all the other stuff.

I have found, 
Treasures of filthy, fake, precious items.
I now, shy away.
I know, what I brought home.
Of broken, scarred and those charred,
I loved most, 
the everyday farce.
I played my own game,
I made them call me, Collector. 

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