To be

This rusted throne of kings, this gilded smile,
This divine right of blood, this gift of sight,

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My Sweet English

There are so many languages to love,
but only one English to prize
and take into ones arms with such fondness
as to spark flames of passion high
as angels might fancy to fly, my dear.

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Children Spinning

In youths youngest hour comes the dawn
and we whirl around at the sky,
and being young and in love

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Hunters In The Dark Wood

A piece of poetry written about the Fermi paradox and the results of finding it. This is based on the idea of the universe being filled with hostile beings.

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The Thinker

A poem I wrote while thinking about the lost statue, “The Poet at the Gates of Hell,” now known for just it’s center portion, The Thinker.

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