I Really Believe, Or Want To Believe,

A Poem Is Like A Radio That Can Broadcast Continuously For Thousands Of Years.

Sometime I’ll Lay Down My Wrath, As I Lay My Body Down Between The Ache Of Breath And Breath, Golden Slumber In The Bone.

The Suffering Itself Is Not So Bad; It's The Resentment Against Suffering That Is The Real Pain.

I Never Dreamed The Sea So Deep, The Earth So Dark; So Long My Sleep, I Have Become Another Child. I Wake To See The World Go Wild.

This Is The Same Notion - Catholic Exorcism, Psychotherapy, Shamanistic Practices - Getting To The Moment When Whatever It Was Gained Access. And Also To The Name Of The Spirit. Just To Know That It's The Ugly Spirit. That's A Great Step. Because The Spirit Doesn't Want Its Name To Be Known.