Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

For This Beauty, Beauty Without Strength, Chokes Out Life.

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

We Are Voyagers, Discoverers Of The Not-known, The Unrecorded; We Have No Map; Possibly We Will Reach Haven, Heaven.