Death wins nothing here, gnawing wings that amputate–– then spread, lift up, fly.

Un-winged and naked, sorrow surrenders its crown to a throne called grace.

Love taught me to die with dignity that I might come forth anew in splendor. Born once of flesh, then again of fire, I was reborn a third time to the sound of my name humming haikus in heaven’s mouth.

Now come the whispers bearing bouquets of moonbeams and sunlight tremblings.

The literary artist lends verbal depth to the visual. The visual artist provides visible articulation for the literary.

Hearts rebuilt from hope resurrect dreams killed by hate.

Whereas the insufficiency of a love neither sustained nor supreme cannot be ignored, the same should not be taken as cause to avoid one's total spiritual contractual engagement to this world.