A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

He calls me desperate (on my tombstone)I hope poetic license will allow: HUNGRY

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

Every evening words, not stars, light the sky. No rest in life like life itself.

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fallFrightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.

At first first nothing will happen to usand later on it will happen to us again.

… the fisherman’s daughter grinding serenity in her coffee grinder.

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

If you have the words, there's always a chance that you'll find the way.

Where the bright seraphim in burning rowTheir loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.

I am waiting for the war to be fought which will make the world safe for anarchy

My house burned downBut anyway, it was afterThe flower petals had already fallen

There are things known and there are things unknownand in between are the doors.