Beginning Enigma
People should not have been created; so perfectionistic, sounding so pinched, so distant from emotion.
Like That Light Morning
There's not much of that, now, out here, where every form of solitude is flawed, Faithless.
Your Sepulchre
There is a pulse— And what’s behind is no longer tangible.
Oil On Paper
"You can be what you desire," Doubt utters From your lips But its wicked mouth is that Of a different language
Make The Gray Pigeons Coo
When you face forgetful grief You should teach it not to Rain on you, And soak you in sorrow