Where Is The Life We Lost In

It's Strange That Words Are So Inadequate. Yet, Like The Asthmatic Struggling For Breath, So The Lover Must Struggle For Words.

These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruins

Uncorseted, Her Friendly Bust Gives Promise Of Pneumatic Bliss.

The Past And Future / Are Conquered, And Reconciled.

Turning Wearily, As One Would Turn To Nod Goodbye To Rochefoucauld, If The Street Were Time And He As The End Of The Street.