The Collection

The Collection

It’s funny,
Yesterday I saw you lying there,
In a room that was empty and bare,
And a body in bed that was yours
minus the flesh,
The phone on the table beside you,
Seemed cold and frozen,
Not once did it ring,
And I understood why,
You were all alone,
The collection was gone.

Funny, who was it?
Do you really know?
Was it the Indian or the Chinese,
Or the pretty dark skinned girl,
Who smiled all the time?
Was it the blonde who you took home
last summer?
Or the Japanese one,
Who you introduced to your mother?
Was it Sandy or Lorraine or Gaye?
Or better yet, Cindy or Tammy or Kaye?

Pity, you collected more than ,
You ever bargained for,
You collected death.
“Was it really worth it,
the collection of your?”
I asked the question,
You were too weak to reply,
But in the pained filled eyes ,
That looked back at me,
I thought I saw the answer,
You had finally realized,
The horrible truth,
That too much pleasure brings pain,
And in your moment of pain,
The collection was gone.


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