The Collector of Tears

The Collector of Tears

He walks the alleys where sorrow lingers,

cupped hands catching grief like rain.

No words, no comfort only silence,

as he gathers each drop of pain.

From widow’s wails to lover’s sighs,

from shattered oaths to whispered fears,

he hoards them all in glass-blown vials,

a library bound in salt and years.

By candlelight, he lines them up,

each bottle sealed with wax and woe.

A mother’s loss, a traitor’s guilt,

each story locked in liquid woe.

But does he think? Does he remember?

Or is he just a hollow shell,

trapping misery like a shadowed god,

a curator of private hells?

Beneath a sky wide,and weeping,

he lets them slip, from his weary grasp.

Shattered sorrow floods the gutters,

and for once, he lets it pass.