The Collector

She’s a collector of simple things

The breakdowns, the sheared hair, the open vein

She collects them all, nothing missed

If owned by lessers and their greaters

 

She places them in a box

Not a 7-sided thing like Pandora’s

But a box of light, remembering better times, and

opened with a key of understanding, a key of growth

 

She meanders as she walks, touching here and there

Always looking for her next trophy, her next piece of the puzzle

She doesn’t always find what she needs, but

she does always find a helping hand

When the night swiftly courses, bringing its daily offerings and empty platitudes

She walks her path, leaving resolution and missed cravings in her wake

 

 

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