I Thought My Fire Was

Traveler, There Is No Path, The Path Must Be Forged As You Walk.

In Order To Write Poetry, You Must First Invent A Poet Who Will Write It.

Wanderer, Your Footsteps Are The Road, And Nothing More; Wanderer, There Is No Road, The Road Is Made By Walking. By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind One Sees The Path. . .

And To Walk Through Life In Dreams Out Of Love For The Hand That Guides Us.

The Unpublished Manuscript Is Like An Uncon-fessed Sin That Festers In The Soul, Corrupting And Contaminating It.