He comes at dawn not knowing what he'll find. The measure of a heart is fed by one's desire to create a path leading him out of the maze. However, his rage breeds havoc inside his spirit.
The cold sinks into an isolated soul. In the hours I choose to walk, I stagger along your planks.
How often I struggled to read into you. For you were closed. With your essence locked up tight, only the vigor of a white stallion could deplete frailties of the heart.
My longing hungers for more than rapture. For when the tides are high, I brace myself against a barrage.
Do you solemnly swear to embrace all the fire channelled by me? Are there only languid roses left in oscillated eyes bequeathed?
I climb into my sleeping bag, and turn off bleeding waters. For you, there is only the shyness exumed from earthly vessels.
The whispers in the morning carry me towards you. I have the encasement; but, you bare no thoughtful measure to sustain a lulling heart.
How can I see into you if your mind is closed to me? Can you read my mind? Perhaps you prefer to walk alone for now.
Your seeds shall be vindicated by sour remedies. Hope is the bread I feed upon.
Do you vindicated my burdens to erase my light, or is it your oceanic heart you aim to please?
With all you muster, can you not feel my heartbeat against thunder? Are dreams to be contrived by way of words, or do they simmer inside your heart's desire?
Somewhere in the palemoonlight the lonely find guidance. Tyrants burn their dead, and feed upon ashes and dust.
Bitterness consumes a falling star. I pick up shattered glass with gloved currency. If only to be received in your bold spirit.
Stop digging your grave. If you wait for your tithe you'll wither..
Kenneth Wilburn published a book with an unusual twist, as it was centered around his students' perception of history instead of being a normal run of the mill history text book. .