The World Rolls Under The

Show Him Every Dawn & Read To Him Endlessly.

The Dreamer In Her Had Fallen In Love With Me And She Did Not Know It. That Moment The Dreamer In Me Fell In Love With Her And I Knew It

In The Pit Of Red You Hid From The Bone-clinic Whiteness But The Jewel You Lost Was Blue.

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.