A Longing For The Dance Stirs In

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.