When someone or something dies, it dies
It turns into ashes but not a poem
Where I was born was a planet Round as an orange As I sit in front of a rectangular window Staring into the flurry of sunlight Pouring over white tiles of squares I hear a cat purring at me In its gin
My pen is laced with the sound of birds chirping in the moist air of March. Sitting on a bench in my made-in-China and Japanese-designed sweater, I feel like a troubled monk. All my senses are still f
What lasts in this world when nothing lasts at all?
What lasts in this world when nothing lasts at all? Is that to say we can ignore the mundane aspects of life for the sake of passion? Does it seem strange to think that one needs more than passion to