And The Elephant Sings Deep In The

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

So The Self Under The Eye Lies, Attendant And Withdrawn.

Nobody Wanted Your Dance, Nobody Wanted Your Strange Glitter, Your Floundering Drowning Life And Your Effort To Save Yourself, Treading Water, Dancing The Dark Turmoil, Looking For Something To Give.

Where White Is Black And Black Is White, I Won.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.