The Painter Saw What Was, An Alternate

As Humans We Look At Things And Think About What We've Looked At. We Treasure It In A Kind Of Private Art Gallery.

We Control The Content Of Our Dreams.

My Old Teacher's Definition Of Poetry Is An Attempt To Understand.

Much That Is Natural, To The Will Must Yield. Men Manufacture Both Machine And Soul, And Use What They Imperfectly Control To Dare A Future From The Taken Routes.

One Joins The Movement In A Valueless World, Choosing It, Till Both Hurler And The Hurled, One Moves As Well, Always Toward, Toward.