Turn On The Dream You

Go So Deep Into Yourself, You Speak For Everyone.

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?

It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness, To Put A Hand On Its Brow Of The Flower And Retell It In Words And In Touch It Is Lovely Until It Flowers Again From Within, Of Self-blessing.

I Will Find That Special Person Who Is Wrong For Me In Just The Right Way.

To Me, Poetry Is Somebody Standing Up, So To Speak, And Saying, With As Little Concealment As Possible, What It Is For Him Or Her To Be On Earth At This Moment