Some Think I Wink At Them When

We Wanderers, Ever Seeking The Lonelier Way, Begin No Day Where We Have Ended Another, And No Sunrise Finds Us Where Left By Sunset. Even While The Earth Sleeps We Travel. We Are The Seeds Of That Tenacious Plant, And It Is In Our Ripeness And Our Fullness Of Heart That We Are Given To The Wind To Be Scattered.

Thinking Is Always The Stumbling Stone To Poetry.

Love Possesses Not Nor Will It Be Possessed, For Love Is Sufficient Unto Love.

Nor Shall Derision Prove Powerful Against Those Who Listen To Humanity Or Those Who Follow In The Footsteps Of Divinity, For They Shall Live Forever. Forever.

Seven Times Have I Despised My Soul: The Sixth Time When She Despised The Ugliness Of A Face, And Knew Not That It Was One Of Her Own Masks.