The Collector

Ribbons of silver
Flowing above our temples.
He collects them.

Others crouch down
Concealed, resisting is simple.
He protects them.

They don't understand it;
How can he stand it?
They don't understand
What he can understand.
They're hunting the rose
While he finds the bows.
And he directs them.

They think and wonder:
Why can they not wonder?
He cogitates and cerebrates
Argentum, he celebrates.
They want to know why
He knows every "why."
If only he knew.

The Maelstrom comes.

He knows he can articulate
But this, he cannot compensate
Apparently cannot sedate
Why must he be so passionate?
Required, he must adulate
Disjunction of his current state
And his many ribbons-
SCHWOOOO!
Gone.

Now, he has learned.

He eats.
He sleeps.
He talks.
He plays.
He laughs.
He loves.

In his hand, a rose.