The Poet: Would Rather Eat A Heart

The Darkness Has It's Own Light.

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

And Soon A Branch, Part Of A Hidden Scene,the Leafy Mind, That Long Was Tightly Furled,will Turn Its Private Substance Into Green,and Young Shoots Spread Upon Our Inner World.

The Self Says, I Am; The Heart Says, I Am Less; The Spirit Says, You Are Nothing.

Art Is The Means We Have Of Undoing The Damage Of Haste. It's What Everything Else Isn't.