The Resin Blood
Your fingertips, held at pursed lips,
Rest poised for a moment of action
That you might strike a sickle deep
Into the vast heart of darkness
Filed under 
The Gift of Self
Hark; do you hear the crickets’ rhapsody, over night’s silent surrender?
Or the north wind’s weary murmur,
Enchanting the tender buds and saplings
Of nature’s sacred grove
The Weary Traveller
There was once a weary traveller
Who settled himself by the sea,
To tell the fleeting waves and sky
How burdened his heart had been:
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