The world burns and,

I write poems for you

Oceans boil,

Thick with the blood

Of Mephistopheles

Howling winds of

superfluous lack

Sweep an unflinching landscape,

Lying, swollen in wait

For the end

Which was etched in stone

Before the beginning

Elders cry of the fall,

Of moral decline, the

Death of a world that

Never existed

The foolhardy cackle

Of the flame which burns

In the last hearth

In the first cave

Gives rise to thoughts

Of you

"In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving you--on my knees, with my shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsman and straining my goose neck--even then. And afterwards--perhaps most of all afterwards--I shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B.... without looking, or, without lifting the pencil... or in some other way... we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I shall form that unique design for which I yearn."

Love is real only when a person can sacrifice himself for another person. Only when a person forgets himself for the sake of another, and lives for another creature, only this kind of love can be called true love, and only in this love do we see the blessing and reward of life. This is the foundation of the world.

Nothing can make our life, or the lives of other people, more beautiful than perpetual kindness.

Kindness enriches our life; with kindness mysterious things become clear, difficult things become easy, and dull things become cheerful.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,

until the stars tick out a lullaby

about each cosmic pro and con;

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells

of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells

and heavens till the spirits squeak

surrender.

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.

HE PLACED HIS HANDS

ON MY MIND

BEFORE REACHING

FOR MY WAIST

MY HIPS

MY LIPS

HE DIDN’T CALL ME

BEAUTIFUL FIRST

HE CALLED ME

EXQUISITE

“We are not idealized wild things.

We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.”

Between two infinite blacknesses

We will meet with warm embrace on sun-kissed days and

Between blinks under moonlit skies

We will seek out each other eternally through countless lives

Which will pass by as do the sands of time

Between the fingers of death's haughty hands

Words, words would never be enough

No matter the meter nor the rhyme

To express how I truly feel

Would take all of time

It is not to be admired simply from here or there

Nor line by line, or page by page

It should be felt, and lived from age to age

A feeling that can never die, but must be expressed through life

It is a perpetual work, stretching from the beginning to the end

From the cosmic dust swirling in the infinite

To the death of the universe as it is all pulled apart

It is never quite finished but destined to begin again back at the start

Between two infinite blacknesses

We will find love in each other, swelling forever in our hearts