Life may be treacherous, but you can always depend on death.

The human creature is alone in his carapace. Poetry is a strong way out.

Love is not love that wounded bleeds And bleeding sullies slow. Come death within my hands and I Unto my love will go.

Youth is an arithmetical statement of passing interest, each hour eats it up.

My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.

My heart was full of softening showers, I used to swing like this for hours, I did not care for war or death, I was glad to draw my breath.

Oh Lion in a peculiar guise, Sharp Roman road to Paradise, Come eat me up, I'll pay thy toll With all my flesh, and keep my soul.