The Tides Are In Our Veins.

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

[k]now That However Ugly The Parts Appear The Whole Remains Beautiful. A Severed Hand Is An Ugly Thing, And Man Dissevered From The Earth And Stars And His History... For Contemplation Or In Fact... Often Appears Atrociously Ugly. Integrity Is Wholeness, The Greatest Beauty Is Organic Wholeness, The Wholeness Of Life And Things, The Divine Beauty Of The Universe.

Meteors Are Not Needed Less Than Mountains: Shine, Perishing Republic.

Imagination, The Traitor Of The Mind, Has Taken My Solitude And Slain It.

Only The Drum Is Confident, It Thinks The World Has Not Changed