Now Is The Time. It Is Never

I've Written Some Poetry I Don't Understand Myself.

I Have Become Infected, Now That I See How Beautifully A Book Is Coming Out Of All This.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

Poetry Is A Search For Syllables To Shoot At The Barriers Of The Unknown And The Unknowable.

A Liar Is A Liar And Lives On The Lies He Tells And Dies In A Life Of Lies.