In Life It Is More

I Come Here To Speak Poetry. It Will Always Be In The Grass. It Will Also Be Necessary To Bend Down To Hear It. It Will Always Be Too Simple To Be Discussed In Assemblies.

What For Centuries Raised Man Above The Beast Is Not The Cudgel But The Irresistible Power Of Unarmed Truth.

At The Moment Of Childbirth, Every Woman Has The Same Aura Of Isolation, As Though She Were Abandoned, Alone.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

How Wonderful To Be Alive, He Thought. But Why Does It Always Hurt?