The Poem Comes In The Form Of

End With An Image And Don't Explain.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.

A Poem Has Secrets That The Poet Knows Nothing Of.

Be What You Are. Give What Is Yours To Give. Have Style. Dare.