It's always been Reward the win, Ignore the sin. The conscience sleeps When money keeps Pouring in.
No intimations, fables, puppet shows; No need for parables: up there one sees Reality; good books stay on the shelf. But am I ready for this loss? God knows How often I prefer the memories Of love—those things like love—to love itself.
The heavens hold more stars than earth has grains Of sand, and given time, each tiny sun Combined should make a world where starlight stains The sky bright white and dark would be undone. And yet the night remains. The dim star
Robert W. Crawford The Bones of the Armenians Not the trump of Gabriel, nor the tumult Stirred up by a clamorous resurrection Can awaken bones from that desert nightmare's Prodigal torment. Not the prayers from myriad begg