Pain Wanders Through My Bones Like A

Should We Say The Self, Once Perceived, Becomes The Soul?

What Falls Away Is Always. And Is Near.

Wake The Happy Words.

You Must Believe: A Poem Is A Holy Thing - A Good Poem, That Is. The Poem, Even A Short Time After Being Written, Seems No Miracle; Unwritten, It Seems Something Beyond The Capacity Of The Gods.

Fear Was My Father, Father Fear. His Look Drained The Stones.