I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill

World Is Crazier And More Of It Than We Think, Incorrigibly Plural.

I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill Me With Strength Against Those Who Would Freeze My Humanity, Would Dragoon Me Into A Lethal Automaton Would Make Me A Cog In A Machine, A Thing With One Face, A Thing

None Of Our Hearts Are Pure, We Always Have Mixed Motives. Are Self Deceivers, But The Worst Of All Deceits Is To Murmur 'lord, I Am Not Worthy' And, Lying Easy, Turn Your Face To The Wall.

September Has Come, It Is Hers Whose Vitality Leaps In The Autumn, Whose Nature Prefers Trees Without Leaves And A Fire In The Fireplace. So I Give Her This Month And The Next Though The Whole Of My Year Should Be Hers Who Has Rendered Already So Many Of Its Days Intolerable Or Perplexed But So Many More So Happy. Who Has Left A Scent On My Life, And Left My Walls Dancing Over And Over With Her Shadow Whose Hair Is Twined In All My Waterfalls And All Of London Littered With Remembered Kisses.

And I Envy The Intransigence Of My Own Countrymen Who Shoot To Kill And Never See The Victim's Face Become Their Own Or Find His Motive Sabotage Their Motives.