A poem is a small machine made of words.
Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!
My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.
Empty pockets make empty heads.
Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realise his wishes- Now that he can realise them, he must either change them or perish
Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.