Poetry Is The Silence And

Tongues Wrangled Dark At A Man. He Buttoned His Overcoat And Stood Alone. In A Snowstorm, Red Hollyberries, Thoughts, He Stood Alone.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

Poetry Is A Search For Syllables To Shoot At The Barriers Of The Unknown And The Unknowable.

There Are Some People Who Can Receive A Truth By No Other Way Than To Have Their Understanding Shocked And Insulted.

A Liar Goes In Fine Clothes, A Liar Goes In Rags, A Liar Is A Liar, Clothes Or No Clothes.