What Is This Life But The Sound

Love Won't Be Tampered With, Love Won't Go Away. Push It To One Side And It Creeps To The Other. Throw It In The Garbage And It Springs Up Clean. Try To Root It Out And It Only Flourishes. Love Is A Weed, A Dandelion That You Poison From Your Heart. The Taproots Wait. The Seeds Blow Off, Ticklish, Into A Part Of The Yard You Didn't Spray. And One Day, Though You Worked, Though You Prodded Out Each Spiky Leaf, You Lift Your Eyes And Dozens Of Fat Golden Faces Bob In The Grass.

The World Tips Away When We Look Into Our Children's Faces.

If Life's A Joke, Then Suicide's A Bad Punch Line.

In Our Own Beginnings, We Are Formed Out Of The Body's Interior Landscape. For A Short While, Our Mothers' Bodies Are The Boundaries And Personal Geography Which Are All That We Know Of The World...once We No Longer Live Beneath Our Mother's Heart, It Is The Earth With Which We Form The Same Dependent Relationship, Relying...on Its Cycles And Elements, Helpless Without Its Protective Embrace.

The Only Time I See The Truth Is When I Cross My Eyes.