the collector

some collect stamps, some collect pieces of faces, i could be you tomorrow, some collect fixes when the long haul looks dismal. why wait? some collect sacrifices not theirs, a gimmick if not caught: obeying the law to the core but backlash is something else. some collect forgetting when pain has entered the hear, some collect a leap to the unknown. boredom is stale, crass, black and white versus a reach towards the sun - never mind that candles melt with heat, form into something else even more bewitching for the heart still pumps, years, desires and desire is a life, a form, an art really that crawls into this thin layer between flesh , gets lost in the way to find breath. suffocated, collection stops, gets erased when the pen stops writing. what now? the author tears up the pages, the chapters already written scattered away - write again on skin, flesh. like tattoos, branding, a flourishing of what should be, could be, unwritten. the last page bleeds, ink dried up, temporal journey fades, scattered, like the pages now just stains on skin. it's pretty, it's gross, it's neglect, the collector gathers up skin, flesh ties them up in a bag. weighs eternity. all that was done, all that has become past tense, all that yielding, all that brittle, all that fury, all that lament, all that struggle, all that collection, weighed. the scales show the contents without objectification, no perception lenses to filter through, just a final verdict. just a final judgement passed on what is lived like permanence.