But Who Is Stronger Than Death? Me

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

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

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.

The Deeps Are Cold: In That Darkness Camaraderie Does Not Hold: Nothing Touches But, Clutching, Devours.

And That's How We Measure Out Our Real Respect For People—by The Degree Of Feeling They Can Register, The Voltage Of Life They Can Carry And Tolerate—and Enjoy. End Of Sermon. As Buddha Says: Live Like A Mighty River. And As The Old Greeks Said: Live As Though All Your Ancestors Were Living Again Through You.