I Have Gone Into The Waste Lonely

To Follow The Drops Sliding From A Lifting Oar, Head Up, While The Rower Breathes, And The Small Boat Drifts Quietly Shoreward.

The Self Says, I Am; The Heart Says, I Am Less; The Spirit Says, You Are Nothing.

In A Dark Time, The Mind Begins To See.

Those Who Are Willing To Be Vulnerable Move Among Mysteries.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.