The collector

I am one, thats only half
in that asunder I live alone bereft
 that fate's smooth runes, gleaned forecast
come winds of love, some chance and waft

To seek for an eternal flame
 Showroom newness, manifest a gleeming dream
the untouched, not used and lame
to smell its comfort, beauty so pristine

Are  my standards far to high
to hoard the orchard's cherry fruit
the early bird and soaring kite
 soft pink flesh, be my sole pursuit

 Seek and find the well run dry
 try to draw and wind the crank and drum
for her beauty can all imbibe
to cast a spell, a being so fulsome

And prance vain waking steps lasso
plotting's of your GPS, homing in on prettiness
just a tired cliche, not the pulling screw
magnetic north of all desires compass

Assembled shelves of empty hope
a maladay, in those shoes and not to stalk
her perfume, on a handwritten envelope
you'd collect, from your front door porch