The Past Is A Bucket Of Ashes

I Have Written Some Poetry That I Don't Understand Myself.

There Is A Warning Love Sends And The Cost Of It Is Never Written Till Long Afterward.

A Liar Is A Liar And Lives On The Lies He Tells And Dies In A Life Of Lies.

Poetry Is The Harnessing Of The Paradox Of Earth Cradling Life And Then Entombing It.

I Remember The Chillicothe Ballplayers Grappling The Long Island Ball Players In A Sixteen-inning Game Ended By Darkness. And The Shoulders Of The Chillicothe Players Were A Red Smoke Against The Sundown And The Shoulders Of The Rock Island Players Were A Yellow Smoke Against The Sundown. And The Umpire's Voice Was Hoarse Calling Balls And Strikes And Outs And The Umpire's Throat Fought In The Dust For A Song.