Pain Wanders Through My Bones

I Lose And Find Myself In The Long Water. I Am Gathered Together Once More.

But When I Breath With The Birds, The Spirit Of Wrath Becomes The Spirit Of Blessings, And The Dead Begin From Their Dark To Sing In My Sleep.

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.

Let Others Probe The Mystery If They Can.time-harried Prisoners Of Shall And Will -the Right Thing Happens To The Happy Man.

Those Who Are Willing To Be Vulnerable Move Among Mysteries.