There are
two hundred...

Heavy weighs the stone of life
Upon this weary soul...

Speak not of that which might have been
Not Summer's kiss, nor Winter's bliss...

What is this? Surely you jest!
A gigantic oxymoron contest...

I am the sentinel on the untried path.
I hear the song of all mankind...

Curious creatures
are we...

He sits atop his literary throne
built from junkyard treasures...

Burdened by the inanities of life,
She wonders when the laughter died...

For years we rasped raw edges
of exposed nerves...

Heavy hangs the scent of warm, sweet jasmine
Sun falls slowly into the fire of evening...

Only a sapling to guard two cold stones
When she first knelt on this hateful hill...

She reminded me
of a lovely orchid corsage...