Leaves Like Rusty Tin For The Desolate

A Lion Is Made Up Of The Lambs He's Digested.

Like A Bird With Broken Wing That Has Traveled Through Wind For Years . . . I Sleep And My Heart Stays Awake . . .

And If The Soul Is To Know Itself It Is Into A Soul That It Must Look: The Stranger And The Enemy, We've Seen Him In The Mirror.

Leaves Like Rusty Tin For The Desolate Mind That Has Seen The End- The Barest Glimmerings. Leaves Aswirl With Gulls Made Wild By Winter.

You Spoke About Things They Couldn't See And So They Laughed. Yet To Row Up The Dark River Against The Current, To Take The Unknown Road Blindly, Stubbornly, And To Search For Words Rooted Like The Knotted Olive Tree- Let Them Laugh. And To Yearn For The Other World To Inhabit Today's Suffocating Loneliness, This Ravaged Present- Let Them Be.