God Has To Remind Us This Isn't

I Must Get My Soul Back From You; I Am Killing My Flesh Without It.

Winter Dawn Is The Color Of Metal, The Trees Stiffen Into Place Like Burnt Nerves.

Why Am I Obsessed With The Idea I Can Justify Myself By Getting Manuscripts Published? Is It An Escape-an Excuse For Any Social Failure-so I Can Say "no, I Don't Go Out For Many Extracurricular Activities, But I Spend A Lot Of Time Writing."

O Love, How Did You Get Here?

The Blood Of Love Welled Up In My Heart With A Slow Pain.