This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.

This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.

We are created by being destroyed.

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?

Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it--

literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.