I have lived my life in the belly of the poetry. Each time my heart spoke, it connoted the rose of a ghost; full of know, essence and glow, sepulchral as a castaway boat. For truly, I spoke from afar off the current’s marks with accent that scent of frankinscence and myrrh. Mystic machinations of depth and verve – swerving, curving – enwrapping all I serve. My mind would swoon and soon I’d entwine with the grass, the fields, passing out sweet wine. I would die in the ground that I’d lie on sound, then germinate alive speaking languages unsurvived.