sometimes i ask myself
in what do i belive?
order, chaos in my life
which one do i need?
i look far back inside my brain upon
the tiny seed i grew
and finally realized, at the end
i never had to ask
because i already knew...
Something Vincent Wrote to Yen
tread lightly she is near
under the snow
speak gently, she can hear
the daisies grow.
all her bright golden hair
tarnished with rust
she that was young and fair
fallen to dust
...all my life's buried here
heap dirt upon it.
Adoxigraphi ©1998