The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

-W.Shakespeare

Wednesday 15 January 2014

One Walks

To be one in a crowd, 
the solitude, the shroud. 
The mind begging
to scream out loud.

Hello, hello, echo, 
smile and echo away.
To move and not be moved.
I’m still here, I’m here still. 
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