Poetry is painting with words. Painting is poetry without them. Lust is poetry with bodies. Poetry is lust without them. I wonder if someone else has thought of this.

You have been lost for days in the big blueSearching for dry land only to be pulled deep outThe salt of the ocean mingles with salted tearsWhere is the beacon to show you home   You begin to swim towards the...

My eyes upon her beautiful, breathless silence.   Whilst she sleeps forever, I whisper to her in prayer.   Hoping she'll come back, I know that'll never be.   I consider setting foot into the grave to find her.

Here laced to your senses is an enchantment. If it doesn't speak to you...  let it show you!   The day aches, and I with her,  daisies in tune with natural energies  said trouble was on the dimming horizon. I could feel it...the sunflowers all whisper,    quietly gossiping...

A blanket of dust obscures our picture. Soft earth once your skin, now dusted with snow.   This sheet had layered over months without warmth. However, we are soon to hold each other again.   Then spring will be dawned upon and rains of April will shower mud off your brilliant aura.   Summer...