To think of changing every word the would-be writer be unheard. The would-be artist be unsought. The mind challenges the soul.

In this imperfect world we stand, lovers pressed, writers pen in hand. And to the past we say adieu, the photographs from which we knew the loves, the liars, unrecognizable the beast which steals from us the true deceased.

Lights through holograms will change, our attitudes remain the same, our energy does not refrain, it changes. Was it I who promised you my blushing breast and solitude?

Of winters frost did Robert sing of woods and hollows and sleepy things. New England rises on her pale white wings, the place we met, the songs we sing. The water pushed against the sand, the poet's now the one-man band. We hasten to this Promised Land of passages unknown, watch sand turn into stone, strip barren flesh from bone. We are one.

It's with the seagulls that I fly in spirit against this winter sky. I carry fish within my mouth and hope that I survive the south. Sailing. Sailing.

This journey led me through a day of what surrealists may say was astral projection in dismay.

Salem's lot was filled with pot, the odd odor. The witches laugh did not amaze me, I never heard a word from them to praise me. I hoped the love of the God would save me.

Oh, virgin are you flesh or mind that thoughts can rape at an unexpected time. I did not dare decline the wine, my girlfriend came to hold me. The porous laughs that run right through the looking glass, reflections of the present past, the future will forsake me.

To wait would be a patient thing, yet foolish thing, a painful thing. A common trust I must resolve within myself. For I'll evolve into this world with hopes and dreams of children's schemes. To fly by night upon the wings of evangelistic things. It's not in vain that we remain. Our sanity is not insane, this disease shall pass without refrain, we make our mark at birth.

Do you remember all the times, the poems and the nursery rhymes? What caused your heart to stop at what would become of Satan's plot? We make our mark at birth.

- Stevi Lee