Night Conceals A World But Reveals A

Take Away Love And Our Earth Is A Tomb.

We Shall March Prospering,-not Thro' His Presence; Songs May Inspirit Us,-not From His Lyre; Deeds Will Be Done,-while He Boasts His Quiescence, Still Bidding Crouch Whom The Rest Bade Aspire.

Poetry, Like Love, Is Something We Never Truly Say Goodbye To.

Things Are Where Things Are, And, As Fate Has Willed, So Shall They Be Fulfilled.

Death: The Grand Perhaps.