The Sky Isn’t A Headstone Upon Which To Place Flowers Poem by gregory collins

It is two-thousand and eleven and just like before,
i read the news that the lights had changed.
But i always knew i would die alone;
Afterlife been waiting to give me a taste since feeling lonely is predictable.

So there is much to do like visiting a nearby sunrise.
There is climbing to the top to feel less sour,
as i will throw myself beneath those people who dance.
I will be happy waiting for a second chance past so deep

and i will follow the river to know where it goes.
I will figure out how many seas can a man walk down,
and i will discriminate against the drunken face of gossip and drool.
Because now alone again with the permanent scar through the constellations -

there is a heaven that if you say goodbye to me nothing else matters.