Throwing The Seeds In The Flowing Poem by gregory collins

With time addicted like a knife edge,
Who else can rip heaven and earth apart?
Nothing with feathers, they crumble when hugged.
Nor anything fragrant, as it will keep silent in the end.
Not the blood that drips into the soil, calling anyone home.
Or someone who can write a poem right out of the womb,
still wet by the waters of endurance

and now wondering why,
the soul gets more entangled and wakes up my heart.
How could i even know if i am cut out for this world,
just like a cloud is doomed to vanish silently;
as i judge what is mirrored in my stubborn dreaming.