Leavening The Flat Bread Of What We

Leavening The Flat Bread Of What We Know, With The Yeast Of What We Dream May Come To Pass.

We’re Too Much Ourselves. Afraid Of Letting Go Of What We Are, In Case We Are Nothing, And Holding On So Tight, We Lose Everything Else.

I'm A Poet,' The Young Man Said, 'and It's My Job To Remember The Sadness Of Things.

We Are All Our Own Graveyards, I Believe; We Squat Amongst The Tombs Of The People We Were. If We're Healthy, Every Day Is A Celebration, A Day Of The Dead, In Which We Give Thanks For The Lives That We Lived, And If We Are Neurotic We Brood And Mourn And Wish That The Past Was Still Present.

Flesh Could Not Keep Its Glamour, Nor Eyes Their Sheen. They Would Go To Nothing Soon. But Monsters Are Forever.