Ash On An Old Man's Sleeve /

I Gotta Use Words To Talk To You.

Every Moment Is A Fresh Beginning.

Time Past And Time Future Allow But A Little Consciousness. To Be Conscious Is Not To Be In Time.

There Are Flood And Drought Over The Eyes And In The Mouth, Dead Water And Dead Sand Contending For The Upper Hand. The Parched Eviscerate Soil Gapes At The Vanity Of Toil, Laughs Without Mirth. This Is The Death Of The Earth.

The Good Poet Welds His Theft Into A Whole Of Feeling Which Is Unique, Utterly Different From That From Which It Was Torn; The Bad Poet Throws It Into Something Which Has No Cohesion.