“Eat, My darling, or else your goulash will become cold”

Great Man, now that you are dead, allow me to squeeze your hand. The sage bushes in Umbria are heavy with bees, so I’m killing them with hypnosis.

For the lesser the days, the weaker the youth

I see flicker the auroras of Jupiter.

Does the crowd bother you?

Come, if you may, with swords or guns. Remember, I won’t cry and run; I will rise from the depths of the land.

Possibilities that are small enough to be held in the clammy palms of a toddler.

It’s never the things that matter.

The only thing that disregards - Is that you won’t be there to

Welcome to the Carnival of Dreams and Memories

It's June–the first day of Summer, You have never come home empty-handed, And I stand by our apartment door, Eye the lift as it totes between floors.

Daffodils and forget-me-nots smile under the Autumn Sun.

Oh, I’m waltzing down.

But like him they will remember her complexion and her curls and the countless pieces that she graced.

Noun. Abstract. That which cannot be touched.

i exist in the smallest of spaces in the underside of a bed a corner of a balcony

I see it in the words, Where your hand dragged over the wet ink.

For wounded soldiers rarely feel, Of throbbing hearts and broken skin.