She been dulledStupefied and lulledA painful recognitionOf love confined
From the fog of a never ending night
What do we have in these hands of po.et.ryexcept for a glass of intoxicationand words making their wayfrom the breeze of the oak…
The eternal question pursued by so many of us everyday in action and thought is who am I and what am I doing here. We try to live out who we think we are, we cling to ideas of identities and act from those spaces and places. Yet are we that or is it all just imagination. Who can tell the…
When people talk about tragic events they often start with where they were and what they were doing as if by…
He always had that look of an accomplished artist, even at the age of 15, I remember. And that sparkle in his oceanic eyes, always fresh…