Frost caught up
to ghostly fingers;
His December walks
filled dark prophecies,
would he witness
another year
or a month?

In the deep snow,
he knew the answer.

The Necromancer told him,
in her underworldly dreams,
he had once been her true love.
He smirked:
I’m still here
in your words.

the most hurt
comes from the people that don't understand you

and most problems
come from the people that do

Playing nice, my favorite vice,
Don’t think twice, roll the dice,
This high price, will it suffice
To see a slice of paradise?

If we could not hate
We would be left with despair;
now, how would that be fair?

Emerson and Fuller,
Thoreau and Whitman,
Again and again, it has been written:
Nothing ever ends, death is no
Impasse;
So when you’re gone we’ll look for you,
In our Leaves Of Grass.

Take this pain, as a token
To trust the heart, is to be broken
The mind alone, sets you in motion