The Collector

The Collector

Words spiral down
And pile upon themselves
In dunes of shimmering white.
But such is the perfection of an untainted landscape
That I daren’t step for fear of tarnishing it’s brilliant vastness.
And only when the words have melted slightly,
And are pooling and dripping like mint ice cream on the sidewalk
Will I venture out,
Counting my history in sunken footsteps,
And collect the stories that lay before me.