Poetry Is A Mixture Of Common Sense,

In The Dark Room Where I Began My Mother's Life Made Me A Man. Through All The Months Of Human Birth Her Beauty Fed My Common Earth. I Cannot See, Nor Breathe, Nor Stir, But Through The Death Of Some Of Her.

The Days That Make Us Happy Make Us Wise

Life, A Beauty Chased By Tragic Laughter.

God Warms His Hands At Man's Heart When He Prays.

Man With His Burning Soul Has But An Hour Of Breath To Build A Ship Of Truth In Which His Soul May Sail- Sail On The Sea Of Death. For Death Takes Toll Of Beauty, Courage, Youth, Of All But Truth.