The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.
Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming.
If I were to say what I really think I would be arrested or shut away in a lunatic asylum. Come on, I am sure that it would be the same for everyone.
Only in chaos are we conceivable.