Modern poetry,
like white washed Greek columns,
is an accidental happenstance
of an eroding past.
A remnant of bad translation
run a muck.

How do you propose perfection in poetry? What measure can be made, for that made, to be unmeasurable?

So there I was, reading white space in the dark.

Now! On to phase two ... no longer being on phase one!

I'm not speaking to you until you stop not talking to me!

The soul transferred is at the heart of all arts purpose.