After The Sunset On The

Sometime They'll Give A War And Nobody Will Come.

Poetry Is A Phantom Script Telling How Rainbows Are Made And Why They Go Away.

Come Clean With A Child Heart Laugh As Peaches In The Summer Wind Let Rain On A House Roof Be A Song Let The Writing On Your Face Be A Smell Of Apple Orchards On Late June.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

Time Is The Coin Of Your Life. You Spend It. Do Not Allow Others To Spend It For You.