When it might not be.

A forgotten piece of poetry. Maybe we were just a bunch of lost kids. Who have finally cut through enough hedges and found their way. We will find ourselves on the road. The quiet town of Dornach, Switzerland, the bustling streets of Rome and London, the fresh air, green hills, and crushed snow in Haag, the city lights in Paris and Amsterdam, they all occupy my senses every now and then.

Aesthetic lies better known as Fiction. I FOUND YOU AND NOT A TITLE. I WRITE TO YOU IN FIRE. WHEN THE ONES WE LOVE GO. HER LUXURY OF SPACE AND TEARS. I FOUND YOU AND NOT A TITLE. I WRITE TO YOU IN FIRE. WHEN THE ONES WE LOVE GO. HER LUXURY OF SPACE AND TEARS. I FOUND YOU AND NOT A TITLE. I WRITE TO YOU IN FIRE. WHEN THE ONES WE LOVE GO.

A little note from the Author. Ten years goes by quickly! What to do if someone is having a seizure. World of epilepsy in the eyes of a poet. Writing to relax my last nerve, strung tautly;.

There is a building I know. Behind the pier, behind the trees. Hiding, but for rooftop flags. That flutter high up in the breeze. Week on week, a new flag flies. When, in my boat, I pass. The crescent-moon, the Tricolore. Each hanging down, half-mast.