Poetry is a subset of a Cosmos, which in itself, is a poem.

Your mouth on mine our bridge to cross and serve where we would go. Utopia of sensations the flesh could never know.

Life is a canvas of many strokes where shades from different palettes meet into a picture so concrete that some forget it is their own, so become framed themselves.

We call interconnected order beautiful. When interrupted, we call it chaos.

The primary dues a writer or any artist pays is to remain sentient, and to forfeit the illusionary luxury of such anesthetics as avoidance, numbness, and denials.

The illusion is we are only physical.

My primary motivation for writing is to communicate my perceptions and insights into the human condition, in a way that may provide understanding, comfort, and company to others.