I am the keeper of lost things,
those intangible imprints of wasted life,
destined to become the destroyer of goodness
and maker of sadness.
I am the collector of vast hauls and hoards,
since time is thievery and accomplice to cruel
love; both take from me, in swift exchange,
my things for harsh space, only to become
entangled in remnants of incomplete thought,
and ‘til sunken eyes and gestures sweep a vile ground –
where lies all a memory cannot contain.
Don’t blunt me with spells and vain speech,
or artistry, somewhat incomplete – you’re of foul tongue.
So consider that, all of these splattered blanks
make this canvass bare –
wouldn’t thou pain if my picture lay there?