The Distance That The Dead

The Crime, From Us, Is Hidden, [though] He Is Presumed To Know.

He Ate And Drank The Precious Words, His Spirit Grew Robust; He Knew No More That He Was Poor, Nor That His Frame Was Dust.

Phosphorescence. Now There's A Word To Lift Your Hat To... To Find That Phosphorescence, That Light Within, That's The Genius Behind Poetry.

I Cling To Nowhere Until I Fall - The Crash Of Nothing.

Write Me Of Hope And Love, And Hearts That Endured.