How sad. The Past happens so soon and is never reconvened.

We drag our former lover like dead poets into the future bound and gagged in the truck of the car because all pastloves are Dead Poets; who are unloved by poet lover now and we ignore their muffled cries in the rear; driving toward the future; tamping down the present with a finger dipped in past and jaded memory. We smother old loves put them away in the dark closet because New Love most often doesn't share our love of Former Poetries.

Вече не бях сигурен дали харещите езици на огъня не бяха по-милостиви от човешките.

Нима външността е мерило за ума и душата?! - Баян

I am poppies in the field
Red and cold
I am sleeping alone
and
I am light
I am light
I am light

We've had our wisdom wrung from emotion's sponge and yet it still drips