There's A Black Rose Growing In Your

Writing. Love Is Writing.

War Wreaked On You His Hideous Ravishment; We, We Alone, Nereids Inviolate, Remain To Weep, With The Sea-birds To Chant: Corinth Is Lost, Corinth Is Desolate.

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why Wait For Death To Sow Us In The Ground?

I Could Not Accept From Wisdom What Love Taught, Woman Is Perfect.