Do Not Cry A Tear That Rows Off
Poem By gregory collins
Into each others eyes, we listen to each other breathe.
The modern society: when the cell phone rings it is
mingled mournfully, and abortion is looked at like a cave drawing.
A lack for words, that i cannot look into the mirror, without
thinking of the world that revolves around it. Is it condensed
into dewdrops, or are we just an angel's raiment ripped off
to reveal wings. But the lightning flashes inside the hourglass
are getting shorter. Where is that sand from anyway?
I guess i am tired of parachuting onto the soul of eight-thousand
spears. They do not cause me enough damage to remind me
of America. It would be more like these sleeves of mine, that
cause me much more rage. Being guzzled out of the past by
those who died at Pearl harbor. Those of the Nirvana, as both
of us will turn to ashes. Or maybe being injected into the
orphaned child of 9/11. Searching for its mother beneath the
covers of my periphery. Where pile on pile of tears is where
i wish i could drill to buy firewood, before another passenger
spends the whole soul hopelessly gazing. Before i have
abandoned the world that has never had a flow; Let alone
what sign is this so much years later. What praying appeared
in my dream and is as helpless as this? What leaves no trace
behind while never tire of looking. Maybe i have been dreaming
about the falling petals of candlelight. Maybe the prologue to
counting the stars is really an ellegy. A silence that breaks loose.
I guess i just do not know what is reflected upon the mirror of my soul,
could be lined with dreams, could be the pitiful ears from my own mind.
It might just be piling ourselves onto the lily paddies of time,
and we all start dancing. We all start sinning, just for fun, out on the graves.