A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


The single request,
Made from birth,
Since suckling breast,
Till laid in earth,
Is that you foretell
Much more than I,
To spell my worth,
Before I die.


There is no more such warm a delight,
Than tearing out each serious page,
And then as tinder, to set alight,
Upon the roaring flame of laughter.


Thus it seems
That shattered dreams,
Will feel like broken hearts,
When they're but the ways
And ricochets,
Of Cupid,
And his darts.


Touch is a confirmation of unity,
Two sensations 
Only born 
When they meet as one, 
A metaphor
In the language of feeling  
Closest to our hearts.