After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars
Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.
There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it.