Hollow Things

There is a vanity in hollow things.

They have no depth, no feeling, no life.

Yet we clamor to own them, possess them.

Shiny casings hide empty beginnings,

Glossy finishes to keep us from bare innards.

A drained cup,

An empty chest,

A barren notebook.

Valuables without value, gazing at the void.

Collecting dust, promises of use unkept.

The lady seeks empty things, hoards them.

Her wealth keeps them hollow and aching.

Purse filled, head empty, hearts that echo.

Be wary of the ladies, for they spend

So much time hoarding they have no soul.

The thief is smarter, collecting already

Filled possessions, leeching off the worlds;

Not created by him but harvested for life.

He lives perpetually starving, but it's better

Than mere survival, he at least is alive.

The dreamer is rare, prized and unpossessed.

They create, fill hollow things with purpose.

Brimming with life, wild with a need to exist.

Ladies drown, thieves starve, dreamers thrive,

Kings and Queens of both world and void.