The collector went on a self-centered journey today,

Absorbing and extruding all the facts thrown around him,

Baffled by enigma and spiraling decay,

This was a plot building up to unsure moments for him



Tragedies and lost souls in between;

Meeting individuals with chemistry and knowing that acquaintance will be brief,

Studying a bookmark and knowing they marked his life in between;

Wishing they didn't have to go when things were starting to look up with relief



Chance encounters might not be his cup of tea,

He carried Destiny's heavy book, heavier was his sigh,

External pleasantries might be exchanged with the world,

Inside though, a storm brewed with a build-up on perplexing questions



Questions, neither priest nor shaman can answer him,

Questions, neither the dearly loved can answer nor can the dearly departed hear,

Answers, he makes for himself and strings them like a thick rope,

Answers, the rope will tighten its bind on him



He might find some in this lifetime;or never,

Sometimes, the journey to find the things that bewilder him,

Is much more rewarding than finding the answers themselves,

He reminded himself and went to sleep,

He had many more journeys to collect and bookmark.

What if stars were people and when one starts to fall,
Its someone ready to live on earth.
What if we went to another galaxy,
And saw ourselves?
Would we see a completely different person?
Or see the past over again.
What if their was time travel would you try to change your past?
Their are so many possibilities,
People might not think about.
Could something I said even be true?
What if we were someone else before,
That's why we see celebrity photos compared to someone that lived years ago.
What if I was named a different name.
Will we ever know the unknown?

Some people are too busy reading stories to write their own.
If you want to create a story worth reading, quit sitting on the shelf with a book, and start writing something

I look to my rulers,
and all that i see.
Lying, cheating swine,
shameless hypocrisy.

I want off this planet,
away from society.
I'd rather take my chances,
and sail the celestial sea.

I feel that somewhere out there,
a greater world may be.
The distance required to travel,
is beyond the life of me.

And so here I stay,
among this society.
Still at night I dream,
and sail the celestial sea.

The poetic heart got broken.
A million shards of glass were ground.
Words of all profound.
Written with an ink pen,
of purely mice and men.
Her pen once was a feather,
stolen from a mother swan,
Tip honed to an arrow head,
Thrown from a bow,

The writers notes are passing by.
With courtesy and a bow.
They're showering ink in passing,
as the clouds are painted black,
rimmed with fading memories.
Can be no turning back.
Clouds are burst by writer's pen,
Thunderous hail of broken glass,
of fierce wind and rain.
Writing tales of past loves,
On pavements once again.
(C) Livvi