I Wash My Hands Of Those Who

Yes, There Is A Nirvanah; It Is Leading Your Sheep To A Green Pasture, And In Putting Your Child To Sleep, And In Writing The Last Line Of Your Poem

Trees Are Poems The Earth Writes Upon The Sky, We Fell Them Down And Turn Them Into Paper, That We May Record Our Emptiness.

Should We All Confess Our Sins To One Another We Would All Laugh At One Another For Our Lack Of Originality

God Has Placed In Each Soul An Apostle To Lead Us Upon The Illumined Path. Yet Many Seek Life From Without, Unaware That Is Within Them.

Only Once Have I Been Made Mute. It Was When A Man Asked Me, 'who Are You?'