Damned Collectors

Nothing runs as deep as the lines of mind

That sweep clean the depictions of change. 

For when all is dark and torn from grace,

We weep, longing for time to cleanse us.

But when beauty brings revival granted

We abhor its binding to routine. 


Why are we cursed? Damned as collectors 

Of accolades to be tossed aside? 

Why may we not be laid to rest

With sole satisfaction to preside?

Climb the rungs of an endless plight

and be left sore and sutured. 

Or care and want for nothing more

Than a settlement for mediocrity. 

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