Strange That We All Defend Our Wrongs

You Are A Flower Crushed Beneath The Feet Of The Animal That Is Concealed In A Human Being. Take Comfort, In That You Are The Flower Crushed And Not The Foot That Has Crushed It.

If You Sing Of Beauty Though Alone In The Heart Of The Desert You Will Have An Audience.

Much Of Your Pain Is The Bitter Potion By Which The Physician Within You Heals Your Sick Self.

Your Body Is The Harp Of Your Soul And It Is Yours To Bring Forth Sweet Music From It Or Confused Sounds.

Hate Is A Dead Thing. Who Of You Would Be A Tomb?