That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...

Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.

The religion of the heart is as intimate as a wish breathed to the night sky.

A sensual life is a ghostly existence where you live on the surface and your soul passes through everything, touching nothing.

When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears.

I see myself at crossroads in my life, mapless, lacking bits of knowledge - then, the Moon breaks through, lights up the path before me.