Word Count: 356
Breakfast for Dinner
The bed she dies in is the bed she loves in
Warm, save for her body, and soft, save for her touch.
She spent her days reading books with
pages that loved her dearly - more than words can say.
She liked her afternoons in sunlight,
absorbing life and everything she never had as a child.
Her father made her pancakes every Wednesday
his only night off
Breakfast for dinner, food for love.
He had a very kind smile.
She remembers how large his feet were - how the brim of his hat
cast a shadow on his face,
So large she lost the look in his eyes
and only remembers the mole on his face.
The first boy is the only one;
married at twenty and with child at twenty one.
Marriage was kind
for the year and a half she was in it.
But the war stole more then just the country's young men.
It stole the only man she promised to love,
And left their child without a father
which - she thought - was the most tragic thing about the whole war.
Her son is the one who picked her daises
after her knees stopped working and her hands became tight.
Her son is the one who collects her books, lets the sunlight in her room -
blessed with kindness that she always expected her husband to have.
He looks like his father;
hazy now, her eyes worse than they ever were years ago,
And she thinks she can hear her own father in his voice.
She always regrets naming her son after her husband.
She dies in the bed that she loved in.
Old - but not old enough to count.
She's not afraid to die, not at all
Save for the cadged bird that tries to fly in her chest.
The room smells like books, sun, and the sheets are kind
but the other side of the bed is cold - always has been for as long as she's had it.
Her son is the only one who holds her hand;The last thing she craves is pancakes for dinner
Title: The Collector
Word Count: 231
A collector of the finer things;
Of gold and jewels and pearls on strings,
Of portraits painted, of sculptures made,
Of things that tend to grow old and shade.
A collector of the noble things;
Of acts and of great deeds some sing,
Of pride, ideas, and grand parades,
Of massive illusions, and great charades.
A collector of the precious things;
Of life, and memories of swings
From childhood, and teenage blues,
Of all the things you can’t afford loose...
A collector of the bloody things;
Of knowledge for whom the death bell rings,
Of bloody battles and of civil wars,
Of bones scatters in forests and on distant shores.
A collector of the most dear things;
Of mothers, fathers, one night flings,
Of crushes, first loves - new and old,
Of anything you heart will hurt not to hold.
A collector of the strange things;
Of corpses that move as if pulled by strings,
From those whom change from being to beast,
To those who consider blood a feast.
A collector of the living things;
Of people, places, pets, and beings
Of a higher lever - a step above normal,
Of those whom dress from poor to formal.
So anyone with odd tricks and fears,
Of people you hold near and dear;
Just hold you ground, and prepare to fight -
For The Collectors had gone out to gather tonight.