I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections, and the truth of imagination.
-John Keats
T,
In the sound I find the seconds
lasting like words to wind
I bite my tongue from yelling out
She is the mind and it touches, the skin
swallowing
the wound I have caused
Things are tipping away from my hand
The blue leaves of the dream are falling in summer
dying from life I cannot give
Hear me, I drink what you serve
I can only keep thanking you for the words you write to me. This is like playing at the romantic
I believed in all along. Not that the romantic died, how can I deny what is me? However
I’ve learned that the romantic is a plaything until life intervenes- This is not a statement about my wife- more a statement of recollection or of youth.
-L
Tracie Clark Writing and Editing 
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