My eyes watched the world before the oceans and bricks were born, my grace of youth, midnight blue.
Ageless, all hearts break for such a heartbreaking beauty, winter's rock-shore, the sleepy-eyed jackal run along yipping and snapping at one another, the drowsy and sweet nectar, the honey of sadness in old poems.
White-hot sands and red bloody sun, I hate the things I write, every unsleeping night, every line and every verse, the strange hollow twilight and lover's dawn, the faded dead light from the skies of ghosts that are gone.
Imagine being made of a rib, a flight of swans, a magnificent meadowlark, a fierce finch on a twig, the miserable rain puddling in a pasture drench.