I've Been Criticised For Writing In Too

Danger And Anger Are Everywhere. Love Is The Rarity, The Gem Buried In The Core Of The Mine, The Outpost Of God.

I've Been Criticised For Writing In Too Complex A Manner For Younger People.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Get The Blame For Being What It Is-- The Colour Of A Kiss, The Shadow Of A Flame. A Rose May Earn Another Name, So Call It Love; So Call It Love I Will, And Love Is Like The Sea, Which Changes Constantly, And Yet Is Still The Same.

If I Ever Get To 100, I'd Want To Be Filled With Wonder And Wild, Adolescent, Wide-eyed Interest In Newness. So Let's Keep The Flame Burning. Let's Stop Thinking Everyone Over 29, Or 49, Has To Be Reinforced By Concrete.

She Looked, And A Scarlet Butterfly Flew Away From Her, Away Down The Length Of The Tower, And Then Another, Another, An Unraveling Scarf Of Butterflies Like Winged Blood.