The Game Of Life Is Good, Though

His Bondage Had Softened Him. Irresponsibility Had Weakened Him. He Had Forgotten How To Shift For Himself. The Night Yawned About Him.

Had The Cub Thought In Man-fashion, He Might Have Epitomized Life As A Voracious Appetite, And The World As A Place Wherein Ranged A Multitude Of Appetites, Pursuing And Being Pursued, Hunting And Being Hunted, Eating And Being Eaten, All In Blindness And Confusion, With Violence And Disorder, A Chaos Of Gluttony And Slaughter, Ruled Over By Chance, Merciless, Planless, Endless.

Then One Can't Make A Living Out Of Poetry? Certainly Not. What Fool Expects To? Out Of Rhyming, Yes.

And At The Instant He Knew, He Ceased To Know.

I Write For No Other Purpose Than To Add To The Beauty That Now Belongs To Me.