In essence we are pure desire. That desire is an expression of a moment and that moment becomes a series of moments we call life.

Suspended on the hands of an evanescent ticking. Pending on the beat of a vein woven drum. Fragile and fleeting. Ever mysterious and expanding. 

My outer life was full. My inner life was like rampant Boston ivy and aspects of my soul were more akin to cities than archetypes. 

Deluged with words and pulses, in poetry I am but the result of all those who came before me. I represent more than I am able to comprehend.

My expression is the result of all those who slain me and all those who heal me. Thank you differently and the same, for the hues of my emotional palette only deepened and multiplied like the cells of some thousand galaxies. 

Pent, it was time for my expression to vent.