Crisp was the quill that bled his likeness.
Feeble was the hand by which his vignette was...

I try to picture the night you left home.
Was the hall undisturbed as the door sat ajar...

Your eyes lit up like a bolero
Upheld by the liveliest of castanets...

“Why does man abhor his truth?” asked the...
Molded by the darkest obsidian through millennia...

Little hands, I wish I could say
That I knew what it meant to be loved...

The day that bird disappeared, it could not recall...
It began in the coastal air as the sun coyly...

Many sleepless nights ago
I dreamt of a cabin covered in snow...