From the Wild West, I heard the thundering voice of Bacchus’, winy prophesies,yet disillusioned in his self aching brains, that rattled his evil enemies.

The inner seas a sulky mind's being, a string of melancholy thoughts swing on its feeble waves:ebbing, ebbing, self ebbing, as how a poet learns himself to wan, until its new bending ,departs to kiss the mirrored shores.

Now the poet has to embrace his destined sadness in life,by entering into this ecstatic world of imagination to unroll the heart secrets with his muse,and to happily fulfill her musky moist dreams of Romance.

A true poet must had to sink, to an ocean of secrets to reveal,and he must be Lovable:but what the World did was smashing his views in a pit of GOLD.

A drop of darkness above me hung,within me ruined Rome,within me demolished Rome, where those lands my dream would well travel,before that I want to die without blame,so let me see ten thousand moons to Dream.

If success has thousand painful tales to tell, why would I yield to hear you say failure.

That society must to listen,the real truth;for that,nature has her sequel shifts,thus she makes her sensible experiments around the earth—with her enduring laws to obey while she moves.

Ah thrills of my soul is not yet perished,for a flame aglow its spirit of thoughts,and my words will garland the most admired beauty of both seen and the unseen hearts.

What if love has its secret thoughts,of tight emotions,the mystic sacrifices—and suicides and bare forlornness,the fright and tenderness on young, unripened faces.