Just Are The Ways Of Heaven; From

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.

A Glorious Death Is His, Who For His Country Falls.

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.

The Bitter Dregs Of Fortune's Cup To Drain.

We All Scribble Poetry.