Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.
I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
Clear and sweet is my soul, clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
I sing the body that is electric! I celebrate the Self yet to be unveiled!