Poets

Why, I sometimes wonder, out of all the spirited conceptions of my Maker, am I the chosen one? Reprinted ceaselessly,

The wormy apple tree we chainsawed to a stump is not content to be a barren amputee.

She left. And still, he sat and wrote about how he could not live with her nor without. Hatred and love contended in his lyric. Whichever won, the victory was Pyrrhic.