And I Walked, I Walked Through The

I Am Overwhelmed By The Beautiful Disorder Of Poetry, The Eternal Virginity Of Words.

I Bleed My Bones, Their Marrow To Bestowupon That God Who Knows What I Would Know.

Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And Death.

Nothing Would Give Up Life: Even The Dirt Keeps Breathing A Small Breath.

Let Others Probe The Mystery If They Can.time-harried Prisoners Of Shall And Will -the Right Thing Happens To The Happy Man.