Writing. Love Is Writing.

Long Hours Trail In Their Purple And Long Years Are Lost In Just This Moment While Our Souls Are Near, Our Mouths Separate.

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The Span Of Heaven And Walls Of Colour, The Colonnades Of Jasper.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.