When Will You Have A Little Pity

I Know Death Is The Fascinating Snake Under The Leaves, Sliding And Sliding; I Know The Heart Loves Him Too, Can't Turn Away, Can't Break The Spell. Everything Wants To Enter The Slow Thickness, Aches To Be Peaceful Finally And At Any Cost. Wants To Be Stone.

One Day You Finally Knew What You Had To Do, And Began.

You, Too, Can Be Carved Anew By The Details Of Your Devotion.

Poetry Is One Of The Original Arts, And It Began, As Did All The Fine Arts, Within The Original Wilderness Of The Earth.

Things Take The Time They Take. Don't Worry.