I Feel That Poetry Is Going On

Reading Is A Pleasure, But To Finish Reading, To Come To The Blank Space At The End, Is Also A Pleasure.

Expecting Rain, The Profile Of A Day Wears Its Soul Like A Hat.

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.

We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented Sink. The Soft Enchantments Of Our Years Of Innocence Are Harvested By Accredited Experience Our Fondest Memories Soon Turn To Poison And Only Oblivion Remains In Season.

Much That Is Beautiful Must Be Discarded So That We May Resemble A Taller Impression Of Ourselves.