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The Poetry of Greg
Collins
*****
aged each time i go looking
by Greg Collins
to be afriad of death is bad luck to me
a fear i expect no justice or mercy from
now i do not think i will be thrown to the bottom of Hell
bearing the odors of being held in the worlds vice
remaining long enough to look and read oblivions face
i mean i hope at least something will grow next to my grave
like an immortelle or a branch of forsythia
and that will be incredibly simple
like heaven answering
*****
burning the ice
by Greg Collins we melt
into our wine and the heart is clean
we watch clouds build autumn in their eyes
and we toast the bright moon who streams meandering miles away
and we wait sometimes broken hearted
and we journey deep while being lazy and carefree
and we even once burned a million homes with our hands howling
thinking about the ten thousand peaks that rise from the bottom of the
earth
the heart of our wandering souls unraveling heaven
the moonlight filling our cup where we drink old spring wine
we are a sky gone without a trace because we are trying to embrace the
pine
we have gone dark and deep with tools to wander carefree in death
to bathe in the cliffs empty handed after we sent a letter home
to not trust a poet who does not take a few weeks off
*****
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