It Was At That Age That Poetry

Who Writes Your Name In Letters Of Smoke Among The Stars Of The South? Oh Let Me Remember You As You Were Before You Existed.

Oh Love, Rose Made Wet By Mermaids And Foams, Fire That Dances And Climbs Up The Invisible Stairs And Awakens The Blood In The Tunnel Of Sleeplessness.

He Who Has Nothing—it Has Been Said Many Times—has Nothing To Lose But His Chains.

While I'm Writing, I'm Far Away; And When I Come Back, I've Gone.

I Want To See Thirst In The Syllables, Tough Fire In The Sound; Feel Through The Dark For The Scream.