The first real poem I ever write, will be in skin.

where rubber meets the liminal road

All that is gold does not glitter; all that wanders is not lost.

In dream, a cuckoo keeps time; the sea is an audience; music makes a maelstrom.

Journeys of the heart are the longest we will ever undertake.

How do I make the voices stop?

A single name is too small for a constellaion

Even the smallest thing will wait a lifetime for the passing shadow of love.

The heart is not written down on any map; true places never are.

Watch out for those sparks, big fires start small.