The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age, so I am writing prose.

Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

..we wear the mask that grins and lies, it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes- this debt we pay to human guile; with torn and bleeding hearts we smile.

Poor conceited humanity! Interpreters of God indeed.

I hope there is something worthy in my writings and not merely the novelty of a black face associated with the power to rhyme that has attracted attention.

All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.