Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Do not move only dream in the mirror; only rush to the rear of the line and the dead of hope, or so it seems. Has my muse died in marital bliss, have my thoughts and spoken words only missed the pressing pages? Has my voice been hushed by happiness, or is this some silly fateful hope. . . the languid squalor that must be the poet's heart? Joys and dreams dance too in the concrete world of heat and open wounds. . . all is not left in shadows and hidden in random play things.