poetic

We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.

Each moment is a poetic expression of the undefined. As long as it remains undefined, it has all the beauty of the world and it steps inside to nurture your dreams.

The cork was in the bottle. He and the Atropos were trapped.

If you ask a twenty-one-year-old poet whose poetry he likes, he might say, unblushing, "Nobody's," In his youth, he has not yet understood that poets like poetry, and novelists like novels; he himself likes only the role, the thought of himself in a hat.

Poetry purrs like a kitten on the tip of our tongue. Each word fluidly floating from our lips, like little crystalline snowflakes, before settling onto an emotional wonderland of forgotten feelings. It has the power to pull our deepest emotions to the surface of consciousness and to serenade our soul with the haunting melody of a self, lost... and finally found.

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway....of my life.

I love to feel the temperature drop and the wind increase just before a thunderstorm. Then I climb in bed with the thunder.

Fracture lines etch the surface of the glass box as if a body fell from the sky and landed on it. He doesn't hear the impact, can't smell the blood.

The characters in my novels are my own unrealised possibilities. That is why I am equally fond of them all and equally horrified by them. Each one has crossed a border that I myself have circumvented.

Winter teetered on the verge of succumbing to the returning sun, but today the breeze still preferred the touch of snowflakes

I will love you like the desert burns along the sun when they are together,and when you will be gone,just like every one else,I will cry for you like the snow that melts at the first hint of summer...and hoping that you'll be backI will miss you like the clouds lose themselves when it rains...

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another til I drop.

...and the women spread their ntsaroz and sit on one side, the men on the other, like they are two different rivers that are not supposed to meet.

Painting is so poetic, while sculpture is more logical and scientific and makes you worry about gravity.

What is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

Knee-deep in the cosmic overwhelm, I__ strickenby the ricochet wonder of it all: the plaineverythingness of everything, in cahootswith the everythingness of everything else.- From Diffraction (for Carl Sagan)

Stone gnomes and angels filled the gardens, and it seemed that they were also sleeping, as though a witch had cast a spell on them.

REVENGE is a kind of wild justice; which the more man__ nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.