The Mirror's Lips Are Set For Drinking Poem by gregory collins

There are tombs of light nobody knows.
A land without music if you are not deaf,
and the time in the lifetime of an angel
is crying for an interpretation.

Like the middle of the road that left her nest.
Where streams go dry over tired buildings,
and a train of the wind is derailed.

But don't look now, my heart is smiling.
Reflecting the face of genuine trust.
As these things can be explained,
even if the journey is untimely

and confusion is stained by the ink of change.
Maybe beautiful, maybe immortal.
Maybe these eyes from the rose went to a city,

where anything can happen but tomorrow will never be.
It cheats like my memory getting no dust,
and i don't see myself in the mirror anymore.
Do i mean nothing to it?

God! Culling the cycles of indulgences bring rosaries to the children within us.
Don't even lost poems keep chewing away at a sinner's parts,
or are remembrances strictly about the preparations.