“If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads, but what he rereads,” -François Mauriac
In an old cave or a treasure chest it may seem, scattered throughout pages and to-do list, I have collected fragments of writing without a home, with no prospects in sight. These words are to the point and do not own any lavish pretenses of grandeur. They simply speak their truth as directly as possible, such as the truth a child will convey out of sheer innocence. I fear that these ‘short verse’ will fill volumes if I allow them as much and bring me to task for my truth. But I will do away with my unwanted proposition of fear and let this winding road of words take me to where they may lead.
“I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all,” -Richard Wright