When does sainthood become the foundation from...
Surely there is not always a didactic harpist...

No one would ever compose a song for me
because who notices what I feel...

Her body is tied, twisted- her backbone
tightly woven around...

Scenery from my door
begs in high quality accents...

We sit in silent pews,
inhaling twilight hours...

I imagined leaving peacefully,
the way a tree bows down in...

There is a door
disconnected...

Half past midnight,
and one moment I was lying sleepily on my bed...

Holding the pillow with barely
any force from my fingertips...

I have picked fruits of the finest love
for a man who I may never meet...

Emotionless shadows hang moonlight
upon blind-bashing charcoal embers...

I went to the grocery store the other day.
I didn't plan it...