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.
Reblogged this on Thoughts from beyond and commented:
I know what you did there.
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I know what you did there.
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