Through my hair glides fire and rain:
the misery my of days, my cries for help...

Outside the rustic porch,
near the stairs that bloom with magnolias...

I felt and I feel this feeling in me
some type of feeling...

This sadness is the kind of sadness
found at the streets in my dreams - the type...

To feel is to sleep in streets
with newspapers up to necks...

I've always wonder - it has always been
a part of me, wondering that is. About...

In Winter - you were my Temple, an altar
that diffused incense to benches overcrowded with...

Within the night, a black leather book rests on...
just like your head does on my lap...

In summer memories,
You are like dripping honey...

Do you see
this soft skin...

Someday, your eyes will be
two coffins in the cemetery...

All I ever asked, was for a little portion of...
you know that glass of milk in the counter top...