The Winter Does What It Can For

All Beauty, Resonance, Integrity, Exist By Deprivation Or Logic Of Strange Position.

Alone With Our Madness And Favorite Flower We See That There Really Is Nothing Left To Write About. Or Rather, It Is Necessary To Write About The Same Old Things In The Same Way, Repeating The Same Things Over And Over For Love To Continue And Be Gradually Different.

The Soul Establishes Itself. But How Far Can It Swim Out Through The Eyes And Still Return Safely To Its Nest?

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

Things Can Harden Meaningfully In The Moment Of Indecision