It is in this solitary place I writehow I fill each and every nightall alone with my quill in handin this quest to one day understand While I again smooth the pageagain get in touch with another agein touch with...

Seems I live here on the brinkalways salting my bitter inkwith these tears I now crynever sure of the reason why Abandoned here on the pageas if discarded by some agewhen poetry always made senseregardless of its imperfect tense How the...

  The tree, which I'll call Her is reaching the end of Her natural life. Limbs that once were spread apart, have thickened so much, that a hand has barely enough room to pass between and touch the spot, where in a tangled bush the sweetest fruit is...