Careful There, Poet. I Might Start To

When You Looked Up To The Sky And Cried 'why?' Sometimes The Sky Shrugged, Yet Other Times It Answered With Warm Assurance Of Linked Hands.

Oh, Sure. Of Course, They Say Now That We’ve Got Freud And The Motorcar, God Is Dead.” “he’s Not Dead; Just Very Tired.

And For A Moment, I Understand That I Have Friends On This Lonely Path; That Sometimes Your Place Is Not Something You Find, But Something You Have When You Need It.

The Desperation Meeting The Silence With Its Unmasked Wish.

We're Like Pretty Horses, And Just As On Horses, They Mean To Put Blinders On Us So We Can't Look Left Or Right But Only Straight Ahead Where They Would Lead.