To open the dictionary of the Beyond and discover what one suspected, that the only word in it is nothing.

She stood beside me for years, or was it a moment? I cannot remember. Maybe I loved her, maybe I didn't. There was a house, and then no house. There were trees, but none remain. When no one remembers, what is there? You, whose moments are gone, who drift like smoke in the afterlife, tell me something, tell me anything.

A life is not sufficiently elevated for poetry, unless, of course, the life has been made into an art.

Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced that even the smallest particle of the surrounding world was charged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind- loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, so many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies in the perfumed heat of summer night.

We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.

To open the dictionary of the Beyond and discover what one suspected, that the only word in it is nothing.

Usually a life turned into a poem is misrepresented.