(I measure time by how a body sways.)
So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
The darkness has it's own light.
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?