It Was Not Like Heaven On Earth Poem by gregory collins

On the hills and fields, the days of old
invade my heart. There are just too many
distrusting eyes, and there is no burning
passion anymore: Liberty flaps her wings
crying herself thrown: Freedom is not a
single white dove that flew from our own
throats. I mean all memories are capsizing
between stupor or stability, as even the
grass roots in your garden close the window.
You stay in your bed while eons of time
bring a silver tray and a clean napkin.
Playing on your flute, who cares if our
grandparents complain. Who cares if
what is going on is incapable of definition.
Kind of like i have been worried without regret.
Because it is the truth. I am made of tears
rubbing against my cheek, and i would
go hungry, raining down all day. I will tell Hell,
everything was not like heaven on earth.
I will tell God i have summarized his/her
career, and the sky hurts my eyes; like
innocence and peace condenses within
the range of a gunsight. Kind of like there
is no use for words when watching the stars
overhead. The choice fruit bears, is breathless.