It Is A Wise Child That Knows

Persuasive Speech, And More Persuasive Sighs, Silence That Spoke And Eloquence Of Eyes.

I Would Rather Be A Serf In A Poor Man's House And Be Above Ground Than Reign Among The Dead.

Like A Girl, A Baby Running After Her Mother, Begging To Be Picked Up, And She Tugs On Her Skirts, Holding Her Back As She Tries To Hurry Off—all Tears, Fawning Up At Her, Till She Takes Her In Her Arms… That’s How You Look, Patroclus, Streaming Live Tears.

We All Scribble Poetry.

Behold, On Wrong Swift Vengeance Waits; And Art Subdues The Strong.