The Poem Comes In The

End With An Image And Don't Explain.

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

Forward My Mail To Mars.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

To Conquer A Piece Of Earth And Make It As Beautiful As One Can Dream Of It Being: That Is Art, Too. A Man Cannot Be Separated From The Earth. I Come Out Of The Garden Every Day Feeling, Oh, Inspired In A Way That One Needs In Order To Convert The Daily-ness Of The Life Into Something Greater Than That Little Life Itself.