Poetry And Beauty Are Always

And I Tell Myself, A Moon Will Rise From My Darkness.

Far Away, Our Dreams Have Nothing To Do With What We Do. The Wind Carries The Night, And Passes On, Aimless.

The Poem Is In My Hands, And Can Run Stories Through Her Hands.

I Wish I Were A Candle In The Darkness.

We Are Captives, Even If Our Wheat Grows Over The Fences/ And Swallows Rise From Our Broken Chains./ We Are Captives Of What We Love, What We Desire, And What We Are.