Verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty

Verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty

I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.

It is too late to start For destinations not of the heart . I must stay here with my hurt.

We live in our own world , A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.

I have been Merlin wandering in the woods Of a far country, where the winds waken Unnatural voices , my mind broken By a sudden acquaintance with man's rage.

Is there a place here for the spirit ? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind 's failure to explain itself?