“The more I branch out, the less lonely I feel. I often wonder if trees are like that, too.”

You’re the crescent moon cradling all theses shadows of me teach me how to shine so there’s no distance between you and I.

Pain is as dark as it is deep. But just like anything that receives enough light, it too will fade over time and become something, a little less ominous, and a little more hopeful.

Pain often hides behind dry eyes yet that river still flows on the inside.

I’m holding happiness as though it never left it was always below my skin. Waiting to be seen waiting for the opportunity to breathe again.

It’s those hands of time saving me when nothing else can.

Skin on skin his heart beat an orchestra against her chest. Love never tires of music like this.

I am caught between the meadow and the sky knowing I can walk long distances, but believing there’s something greater than where my feet can take me.

There is no road less travelled than the one that leads into the sea. But the waves will always take you to where you need to be.

Morning mist like a blanket to dawn, obscures the hope of a new day. Yet the sunrises high, and the blanket falls and hope returns to the stage.

Take me from this wasteland, for I have longed for an escape like a bird that craves the wilderness, from every corner of his cage.

Sometimes it is not about the touch at all it is about the hands they belong too.

Bitter sweet rose her thorns pierce every bone, but her lustful petals fall like bandaids for bleeding sores.

A flower grows where it is planted but love grows everywhere.

Mountains speak in peaks and troughs. Just like life. And just like love.

I will always have a little bit of the wild in me. Always remembering what a good heart tastes like. Like love, that never ends. Like you.

Some days I wonder how I can become more then I think of you and I grow with love.

It appears, then, that ethics, as a branch of knowledge, is nothing more than a department of psychologyand sociology.

A son is like a lopped off branch. As a falcon he comes when he wills and goes where he lists.

The javelin-snake amphiptere hurls itself from the branches of trees.

Give me a love like winter branches, that will hold on even without any leaves.

And if there is no lining to the world? If a thrush on a branch is not a sign, But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day Make no sense following each other?

The music had to be rooted, and yet had to branch out, like the wild imagination of a child.

Politics is the entertainment branch of industry.

There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.