The First Step In The Journey Is

I Will Find That Special Person Who Is Wrong For Me In Just The Right Way.

Little Sleep's-head Sprouting Hair In The Moonlight, When I Come Back We Will Go Out Together, We Will Walk Out Together Among, The Ten Thousand Things, Each Scratched Too Late With Such Knowledge, The Wages Of Dying Is Love.

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness, To Put A Hand On Its Brow Of The Flower And Retell It In Words And In Touch It Is Lovely Until It Flowers Again From Within, Of Self-blessing.

When I Sleepwalk Into Your Room, And Pick You Up, And Hold You Up In The Moonlight, You Cling To Me Hard, As If Clinging Could Save Us. I Think You Think I Will Never Die, I Think I Exude To You The Permanence Of Smoke Or Stars, Even As My Broken Arms Heal Themselves Around You.