No One Knows The Colour Of A

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

...if You Do Not Even Understand What Words Say, How Can You Expect To Pass Judgement On What Words Conceal?

Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why Wait For Death To Sow Us In The Ground?