The First Step In The Journey Is

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.

This One Whom Habit Of Memory Propels To The Ground Of His Making, Sleeper Only The Mortal Sounds Can Sing Awake, This Blessing Love Gives Again Into Our Arms.

There Are Two Versions To Every Poem – The Crying Version And The Straight Version

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?