On Halloween, witches come true; Wild ghosts escape from dreams. Each monster dances in the park.

Mothers are the place that we call home. On them we rest our heads and close our eyes. There's no one else who grants the same soft peace, happiness, contentment, sweet release, erasing righttime tears with lullabies, restoring the bright sun that makes us bloom.

...A fuel-less flame is nothing but a wraith, However wrought, if unsustained by passion.

Eight days the light continued on its own: A miracle, they say, but not more so Than ordinary lives of flesh and bone, Consuming wicks burned ashen long ago.

Angels are quite ample cause to cry.

On Halloween, witches come true; Wild ghosts escape from dreams. Each monster dances in the park.

Halloween wraps fear in innocence, as though it were a lightly sour sweet. Let terror, then, be turned into a treat.