As winter shuffles in and stomps its boots,
and autumn, fleeing, leaves the door agape...

I cannot, I
cannot. Leave. I cannot...

It is now the flare
before the final falling...

She shared a womb with the monster;
this is something everyone has forgotten...

A life may be shattered,
beautifully...

Timelessly I stare
searching my own eyes...

Mornings allow me to forget.
The bright glare of day sweeps out...

Dawn broke red over Ithaca,
where Penelope woke...

The lions of Assyria were
shrunken things - short...

She leans,
probably too far...

I'm about as French
as a year without...

My grandma wears army boots
and tromps in them for miles...