Only fresh air is beloved.
She loves...

Wood searches for light—
whether in the sky...

A bloom
is a testament to fire...

A taint of red rose
illuminates...

They were stone
before they found divinity within...

Nothing definite is definitely definite—
things are only relatively so...

I am still drawing back the bow
of the arrow...

The sore of aloneness intensified,
melting en masse...

It is utterly futile
to argue with yourself...

The bouquet of flowers
I offered you...

The guardhouse of loneliness—
where the truth of oneself unfolds...

Love dies
when the market shifts...