The Collector


When you talk
The air becomes filled with butterflies
And while you talk
I catch them in my hands
And put them gently in my pocket
And when I leave you
I go home
Take them gently from my pocket
And arrange them
…………………….Like this
On a piece of paper
So that when you find out what I am doing
And no longer let them loose when I am there
I can come home
…………………….And remember …

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on March 3, 2015, in Poetry, Republished and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 22 Comments.

  1. Remembering the butterflies. Complete feeling of freedom. They only know now. Your poem tumbles like a waterfalls. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The world is better for such coincidinks.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Belated “likes” on this poem, Ben. Glad you brought it to my attention. Seems I missed it twice.
    Also missing you here on WP……


  4. Reblogged this on Seasonings and commented:
    We miss you, Ben Naga.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Hi Ben long time no see. This is an amazing poem 💜


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