His lines run long and deep,
A landscape shaped from the constant tales,
He has let them seep into deep,
From near and far, setting wind to their sails

The collector he has become to bear,
A tale or two, from weary travellers,
They seek to drop their baggage of fear,
He collects them all, a book he holds dear

A book bonded to him, by long heavy chains,
Just like Gaiman and his Destiny in Sandman,
He walks around with mental notes of pains,
Dreams crashed and loves lost, all collected by the Sandman

He doesn't judge, as he has been in their positions,
Both sinner and victim, by choice and by force,
Never moments to be proud of but memories of decisions,
Inner turmoil that toss and turn, a reckoning force

If left unchecked, he would reckon,
he would have lost sanity and turned to be the Joker,
"Some men just want to watch the world burn",
But that can't be a solution,

So he collects and he places a mark,
On each chapter and timeline, changing roles,
It made him be more wary, places in the dark,
Plots and characters, written after they perform their roles

But he's not the only one,
There are many more around time and locations,
They go about with a collection of tales,
Sworn to secrecy and bound to take it six feet under,
The book of Destiny tied to their feet,
Each step taken with an acute sense of awareness,
They walk among us, never showing their true-selves,
Only long thin lines running deep,
Until another one comes up.