I am afraid it remains the truth,ever since my fraught youth,that I am an agent of the night,a provocateur of the sacred write. Sitting here with quill in hand,on a lifelong quest to understand,the rhythm within every rhyme,within lines thinner...

It is still all that defines...all of these still uncrossed lines,boundaries I have not yet crossedin a life of die as of yet untossed. Having traveled the whole world,while keeping myself unfurled,I remain such a bundled mystery,with so much you...

There are such long-forgotten tracks,hidden here within these cracks,between each and every line...a most nefarious sort of design. While the poetry seeks to beguile,such venom behind every smile—meant, then, to be kissedafter any warning is missed. Or so it always does...

With every new coin I toss,or every bridge I dare cross,I do love to step over the line,upending every poetic design. As I again try to make my way,in the quest to somehow unsaythese stanzas within the night,left here forever...