If my love for you was like our feet,
underneath those thin Nagano covers -
then, baby, I would freeze you dead,
and we’d die two frozen lovers.

Over your back, across my thighs, we stroll;
You are molten, the black treacle of my soul.

It is to be remembered that for all our diversity,
the white lily blooms; even in adversity.
All blood is the same and different throughout,
all water is the same in storm and in drought.
The sand settles over a puddle of rain,
and rain over concrete will do the same.
A novelist is a creator in all written word;
A musician is an artist in all music heard.