The Stars Come Up To My Porch Poem by gregory collins

The stars come up to my porch with their ears alert.
Then morning comes with a clock and washes the sky blue,
and i am someone sipping liquor from a glass that stings the outside world.
I am ceaselessly destroying myself through the wilderness inside.

While your coal burns brightly but not from an empty heart.
Being thrown endlessly in silence,
and i still describe it with an indescribable loneliness,
and that sharp blade pierces through me in a pastoral joy:
that is plotting something on the bones of my pocket whiskey flask.
It is leaning on the boards of the coffin
and do you know why candles take fire onto themselves to burn out?