The paper waited,
as if its relationship to the pen...

The peace.
O peace...

I beam,
at the perspicacity of ones heart...

With a touch of passion
she mourned with love...

Each morning we meet,
you always ask how am doing...

Waking up, it's another day.
My mind is blank...

There are points of silence circling the heart.
They are itself...

Will tell you something,
something I have always said to myself...

Everyday,
hay is made while sun shine...

I have a secret,
high classified secret, but wish to share it with...

Oh, my heart,
truth does hurt...

Her way with words,
is like a beautiful butterfly...