Too many people have tried to turn our world into gold; Not to want money, but to want a life of alchemic medieval times. The science is silent, and death rustles on like leaves in the wind.
3 Lines, Forgotten [poetry]
Evening came; A long walk under cottonwood trees took me past faces that bore no blame. No one remembered my name.
3 Lines, Inflamed [poetry]
Fun that flashed like raw flesh where we slept, We awakened the luxuria we kept secret, And boiled our lust away beneath a desert sun.
