One Color Missing Helps The World Rust Poem by gregory collins

Frank Stanford under the Missouri sky,
where down the road of death the walkway widens.
If you should shed anything now, it will reflect those being born:
As every leader's heart somehow makes us curious.

Are we the fish at the very bottom
that have suddenly stopped moving as if we were dead?
An entry in my diary drinks the water dripping there,
my starlit sky has even aged beyond recognition.

The universe is unable to turn over even once, and no one
can assure me they will not look at me with a judge's eye. I am
all by myself staring at the sky that pays absolutely no attention to me,
and from all these philosophies the sunrise is still squeezed out of the grass.

With destiny and rebellion equally enchanting at the same time;
with me on a rainy day riding down the raindrops on the man's cheeks,
hoping i don't get arrested for not owning an umbella.