Poetry is supposed to come from the deepest parts of the soul, yet the mind always speaks first…

Always thinks first…

Always judges first.

Rhyme is attached to reason; love to cold unfeeling, yet reason is unheld by rhyme.

Heroes do not always live up to their name, and mended hearts are the denial of body, mind

and soul.

Fate and destiny work in a mafia of tragedy and consequence, and the needed are often

unheeded.

Poetry is not all pretty words.

A lilac flower on the road can be poetry…

But life is when it wilts.

Poetry is soul in physical words; in an unbending rhythm of sight, sound and feeling.

Yet poetry is not life.

Life is wonderful, life is cruel

We are first heard in screams, yet we end in silence.

Poetry is words.

Life is…

Dot.