“The Collector”
There was a meadow, where I would chase through, Where emerald blades, welcome, fulfilled Butterflies and I, who’d always pursue; Driven by the thoughts, not yet stilled. The springs of my needs abound so lonely; From your short breaths, I’d felt a voice, But empathy is lost, in the jars, where they’re only - The way I kept you, for I had no choice. As I think in the shade of my next ordained flight, Beneath me, your...