“So word by word, and line by line,The dead man touch'd me from the past,And all at once it seem'd at lastThe living soul was flash'd on mine,And mine in his was wound, and whirl'dAbout empyreal heights of thought,And came on that which is, and caughtThe deep pulsations of the world,Æonian music measuring outThe steps of Time—the shocks of Chance--The blows of Death. At length my tranceWas cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt.”

“In other words, I step out of line and we're all dead.”

“So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries,She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf,Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.”

“So many details came into focus. The shape of his lips, the line of his neck. “I’m not dangerous,” I breathed. He brought his face toward mine. “You are to me.” And somehow, against all reason, we were kissing. I closed my eyes, and the world around me faded.”

“Poetry is the language of the soul;Poetic Prose, the language of my heart.Each line must flow as in a song,and strike a chord that rings forever.To me, words are music!”

“He made a small sigh, as he swallowed the first blood, then his mouth closed over my earlobe, mouth working at the wound, tongue coaxing blood from the wound. He pressed his body the length of mine, one hand cupping my turned head, the other playing down the line of my body. Maybe it was just blood, but I never stroked my steak while eating it.”