Am I a gem wrapped in cotton balls,
or a worm, inside the flesh of an apple...

In the night all the
inks of the world can not shield...

Nothing definite is definitely definite—
things are only relatively so...

Who is this man walking in my past?
I despise to defend this man...

Only the protruded objects have substance
and the hollow ones...

We are born,
to live for a while...

The irony in the life’s enthusiasm
is the cocoon of caterpillars’ transmutation...

We argue to learn.
Owing to our argument...

Why just the violin can speak the truth
when all the sounds are disingenuous...

All the world suffers
your discords till the music...

There are no bite marks on his apple.
His toys are still in their boxes...

A poem is the
iteration of every...