The Trackless Path

Possessions speak to us all day long.That book you purchasedBut have never readSays“Read me!”And the empty shelf Says “fill me up with more.”Some possessions warm and nurtureWhile others distract, dissuade, and even harm.If we are not careful, the things we ownCan siphon off our strength.Or they can build us up,Make us better.So choose carefully what you ownAnd don’t be afraid of letting goOf a thing When it no longer serves The purpose for which it was purchased.

They say that not all who wander are lost,And that’s true of me, I think. I wander, wander,Never sureExactly where I’m going,But also not without a rough idea.The inner light points in a directionAnd I begin to act, to move step by stepToward the place where it feels that I should go.And I trust the way to open up before me.And it does. That’s the miracleThough it does not comeWithout the workOf exercising faith.I relate to the albatross and its endless worldwide journeys.It is said that the albatross can travel ten thousand milesTo bring home one meal of oily vomit for its chick.Yeah. I think that’s it. Ten thousand milesTo find one little treasure,One morsel To regurgitate here upon the empty page.I find myself wanting to expand upon this work.To share more of what I see and feel,More of the people that I meetAs I wander, wander,Round the world.

A discussion of "Choose Your Story"It is possible to serve the lightFor your own sake?To be Dark inside,Filthy with secret prideWhile outwardly stacking upYour achievements, Allowing othersTo laud your name, And never once realizingThat your soul is lost,Not in gross immorality,But in the actor’s gameThe hypocrites play.Listen closelyTo yourself.Is your story one of redemption?Or is it the hero’s myth?They are not the same story.I have a deep distrust for the latterAnd an unfailing affection for the former.So don’t tell me how you slew the dragon.Tell me about the dragon inside of you.That’s the story I long to hearBecause he lives inside me too,And it is all I can doWith the help of GodTo find my way.

There is the part of me that likes to go outAnd there is the part of me that likes To come back home.And both play a part in the strange way That I support my family,My family.And you are part of my family.I go out, and I come back home.And I share the wisdom that I’ve found from the roadWith the ones I love, the ones I love.I love you, and I pray For you in your own journey.Perhaps one day, you will grow upTo go out and come back homeAnd share your wisdomFrom the road.And the cycle goes round and round,You are my children. And one dayYou will have childrenOf your own.

Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man Who helped prepare me for the road.To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.Lesson 11: All Day LongI almost didn’t mention this oneBecause it contradicts Something else That Raymond said.But it has become applicable.You see, I was skeptical When he impliedThat everything came to him without asking.Sometimes, maybe. But always?And so I asked Raymond,Do you ever have to panhandleTo get the things you need?“Yes,” he said.“How much?” I asked.“All day,” he said. “Every day.”“Oh…” I said. And I didn’t like that answer.Because now it appeared that our good fortuneWas a special providence, and thatI would not be able to escape The work of asking.

Many changes are afoot.I stand on the brink Of, yet again, a leap of faith.And somehow, it feels as if These little thoughtsMight just not be enough,As if I should be, do,Something more…Something more…And I wonder,Is it enough?What do you think?Might the world feed me and my little tribeIf I just keep showing up…showing up?Soon we will find out,Won’t we?

I weave your dreams from autumn leaves Turned brown and drifting downwardToward the emptiness Of summer skiesWhen the snow flurriesUpward toward the starlit heavensAnd the moon looks down Upon the restless hopesOf careworn soulsWho daren’t BelieveThat anythingCould be so real As the grind of wheat upon the wheels of time.And the feet of those who’ve gone beforeIn the dusty tracks of themWho couldn’t findTheir way.

Today's poem... and the subject for today's episode.I wonder, If I were someone else,Would I be just like them.I can't help but thinkThat to some degree, I would.That makes me think that it's just meWalking around and being everyone.So many people can't help but be themselves,Just like me, just like everyone.I wish that I could be A better friend to themAnd in turn, a better friend to myself.God help me to see it deeperTo feel myself in the othersThat I meet each dayI pray.

Taking a new format for these podcasts. Today I discuss the thoughts that precipitated the poem of the day:Note to self:People want what they want,And some graciously give,God bless them.But when it comes to making a living,It may be better me to focus on what others wantNot what I want. Sell them somethingThat they are already looking for.And then use the surplus To graciously give.One day, the world will changeTo an economy of gifts.I look forward to that day.But in the meantime, it’s a balance.We work. We sell the people what they want.And then we give of our surplus property.It is an imperfect system. But it works.And perhaps we can use it as a tool To shine a light on the coming world of gifts.

I am the roots of the treeThe thing unseen.I amThere but you can’t see me.You think that it is you,That it is he,But it is weThree.Remember. Oh, remember.And when you think that you’re aloneDraw deep from the unseen place that lingersIn the memory of what you were before you sprungUp from the ground so many years before.There we were together.And thoughYou cannot see me.I have never left you and I never will.I am the source, the wellspring of your deepest desires. And one day, when you’ve grown tired of living,And fall down hard to the unforgiving soil.There I will wait to meet you deepIn the hollowed end, That is beginning.Thank youFor letting me nourish you.I am the roots, and I love youAnd though you think that we are separated,We are not. We cannot be, we three,Are knit together in onenessAlways.

I have to slow down and visit meaningOr it escapes me. I have to ask myself,Do I find meaning in what I'm doing now?I ask it all the time, of myself.And to my surprise It often says, Aye, there's meaning.And that's classic, to find it In the most unexpected ways and places.But it's not enough to find my meaning I have to see it in others also.I have to hear the stories.I have to watch theirSacred paces.And the sight, the sound, of itRestores my faith in meaning itself.And as, like a flood, it washes over me,I am restored to the unnameable meaning of it all.

There are those who try to deny hellBut I am not sure why.There are thoseWho choose hell in this lifeWhen the light shines the day long.I can’t imagine that the next life is so different.But I also can’t imagine That the light doesn’t shine brighter there.But that means that the darkness Must also be deeper,The contrast more stark.There is always hope for those who want the light Though they flounder and fail to find it.I do not worry about them.But there are also thoseWho do not want the light.They seek out the shadows.They revel in causing pain.And you cannot force a soul to heavenThough you extend the hand of mercy the day long.

I wish that I could give the world His love,Not a system of belief,But the Man Himself.For I am cradled in his kindness.My home is in His heart-And though I wander O’er the earthMy pillow a stone,My shelter rain,I am at homeIn Him.It makes me think of thoseWho have no homeIn the love Of One.It makes me want to wrap them upIn the harbor of my heart,To clothe them with acceptance,Peace, truth, and kindness,And to free them, Like birdsTo the belief that they are loved,How is it done, I wonder,When I, myself, Am yet like sparrows?It seems so little to love.And yet it, so often, has been The only thing I had to give.

Old friend, the world that you have chosen,The spoil that you have taken,Sits rottingUnder your canopy.“But I could pay,” you say,“I could pay. And here is the receipt.”Fool! You believe that you are the hero,The saver of the day, the victorBy the thickness of your pocketbook.And what’s more, that you have escapedThe eye that sees all things,When in reality,You have dealt treacherously.You have whisked away the heartsAnd the very souls of menFor your own pleasure.Bring them back, I say!Bring them back!Before, with fierce anger,I come into your house to repay.And your family is stripped from you,Your pocketbook emptied.Your soul ravaged Of solace,And you left desolateAmid the furious windsOf the desert of the soul.Old friend, we are still friends.But know that you can’t go on this way.And I mourn to see the future that awaitsIf you do not swiftly change your ways.

If the world will ever find peaceGood people will have to stop fighting.It is not enough for good people to be good.Being good has a blind spot. It makes you thinkThat you are justified in fighting for what is right,In making war in defense of truthAnd to preserve your freedom.But freedom doesn’t need to be preserved.It lives within the heart of those Who can’t be persuaded Not to speak the truthEven when the enemy rages And the tyrant oppresses.So be good. Speak the truth.But also be kind. It is the way That leads to peace.

Some news.I am going overseas.I don’t know how I’ll get there.But I’ve never known how I’ll get there.And isn’t it strange that I could know such a thing?And yet I do.How long will it take me to get there?I don’t know.How will I support myself when I get there?I think I know. More on that to come.But in the end, God only knows.And how long will I be there?A year, a month, a day,A lifetime?God only knows.One thing I know.My path is a surprise.And the joy is walking it with HimWherever he leads me. That’s enough.

If I were to just actAnd stop thinking quite so muchI think I’d be better off.So long as our intentions are good,I don’t know that it matters that muchWhat we do so long as we do.Do, do, do. In all things, do.That’s what bodies are made for.Do the best that can be doneUnder the circumstancesAnd then move onTo another do.I wonder if it’s the long-term That gets us thinkers into trouble.We try to make choices That we can’t yet make.I am sure there are someWhose problem is the oppositeWho get themselves into troubleBecause they don’t think quite enough.But for those of us whose addictionIs trying to work it all out beforehand,The antidote, it seems to me, is DO.

Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man Who helped prepare me for the road.To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.Lesson 10: Keep writing. Tell a story. Disappear.This one surprised me.It came in the days that followed.Raymond had given me 2 books,One deep, the other bubble gum.Couldn't get past page 40 in the latter.Couldn’t put down the former.The author of the latter Was all over.But I could not find a single wordAbout the author of the former,It was published in 1939,And the writer had disappeared from historyTo spite the fact that his bookWas one of the most meaningful, Well-written, and moving stories I’ve ever read.And in those two books, Raymond’s message Came through crystal clear:Tell a story. Tell it well.Move the people,And then disappear.Don’t try to be great.Just try to tell a good story.It’s enough.

I will gather the apples before they fall,But not my apples, your apples,If you'll let me.You planted the tree with good intentionsBut we all know how that goes.And they'll soon go to waste.I'll also clean your windows,Mow your lawn,Walk your dog,If you let me.You planned to do it all,But we all know how that goes.I'll even take out your garbage If you let me, so longAs I can rifle through your trash.You bought that stuff with good intentionsBut we all know how that goes. And I can make a living of your waste if you'll let me.And what's more, don't put it past me to waitUntil you're bothered By the unused scrap of landAnd are ready to let it go for a song.I'll sing the song if you'll let me.And pound out a golden paperIf you'll let me, if you'll let me.I am the care-free scavenger.My life is easy, risk-free, almost.Because I know how that goes.And I am willing to work and wait.

You can create another version of the past That serves a better future.When you do something you regret,Rewrite the experience in your mind.And give thanks for God’s graceIn helping you to choose the better partEven though you did not choose the better part.Be descriptive in your re-writing,Enough that gratitude wells upFor making the right decision.See it. Feel it. Resist the tendency to disbelieve.And you will actually create another reality.Yeah…out of fantasy. But your brain doesn’t know that it’s fantasy.It experiences those good feelingsAs if they really happened.If you do this consistently,Sooner or later, you’ll discoverThat you start doing the right thingSo that you can experience more Of the feeling you feltIn your made-up past.It is a strategy for the weakWho wish to be made strong through belief.

Bookkeeping and accountabilityIs very much like a cold water plunge.It brings me into immediate contactWith a cold harsh realityThat is at the same timeShocking and invigorating.Holy cow! What a reality checkTo face the unrelenting numbers.But I love it. Every expense, however minute, counted.Every dollar added up and carefully budgetedWith single minded intent toward wise investment.It turns out that I don’t make as much money as I thought!And that makes me disinclined to waste a single minute.I can’t afford to. They are too prescious.Most of my life was laissez faire.I trusted God to provide And he did.But this new thing of facing the numbersIs also precious. The God of TruthIs also in the numbers.The cold water.He is in the miracles.But he is also in the math.He is in the wandering wilderness.And he is in the rocky soil we must plowWhen we reach the promised land.

A fire’s lit within meWhere the broken waters flowed,A covenant to purchaseAll the land they have disposed,The barren wasted placesThat the Spirit only knowsTo feed the broken familyThat in my heart like flowers grow.

I rejoice that the land is going back.It is being claimed by the owls And by the finches,By the little birdsAnd by the great big bears.For it appears that despite the grasping hands,That the pebbles fall between the fingers.For the time is up.The lease has been reclaimedAnd soon, it will be turned loose to the wild ones Who have no other place to go. But fear not, It’s just the land you haven’t used.You won’t miss it when it’s gone.You may even rejoiceTo be spared the taxes.For a curse is decreed upon the land.Hear it, oh people! I say again,A curse is decreedUpon the land.And nowBehold the One who watches over sparrowsCome to give homes to thoseWithout holes. Behold, He comes With lightning in His hand.And there is no way to cling anymore To anything but that which you most cherish,So choose well.

From frugality, comes generosity.Tao Te Ching, Ch. 67Who would have guessed?But think about it,If I am an extravagant landlord,I can't afford to give you a break When you lose your job And can't pay the rent.The same is true If I'm in debt.The bank is relentless And so must I be.Only the frugal landlord,The one who buys with cashOut of a fraction of his meansCan afford to give the honest man a breakWhen he really needs one.Only the frugal man can remain humanBecause he's free from the machine.

This morning I was trying to decide what to writeAnd a thought came into my mindThat had been brewing since yesterday:“Investment is more about valuing what you have Than it is about the acquisition of property.”Is that really right? I wondered.And then the second part came:“If you make good use of your present means,Property will fall into your hands.”And I was blown away,Fall into your hands!Incredible!

I am drawn to the song of the heart, sung with others.It’s been so many years since I sang.Perhaps I will find a choir.The thought feels like home.And yet I live in the boonies, Not many great choral groups nearby.If I do join a choir, I want to find Some people who take it seriously,Not professional musicians, but musicians,Not just a handful of parishioners Looking for something to do On a Sunday afternoon.I wonder, do you too love choral music?If so, what does it do for you?Am I alone in the sense of home I find in it?I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

I am feeling rather practical today, More like a merchant, less like a poet.I am intrigued by watching money,Seeing it slowly trickle in,Marking down the numbersAlotting the returnsAnd pouring a portion of my means,Into the opportunities that wait.And what’s the point?To grow in wealth.How vulgar that once seemed.And yet, as the rivers flow into the Ocean,I am drawn unto this end,As if from the beginning it was And always has been my sacred pledge.And as the rich despised my poverty,The poor will hate my wealth.How strange. And yet,I cannot but follow The Voice That now prompts me to do it.My life, my fortune, is forfeit unto Him.

In the early journey of the soul,Spirits long to test the waters,To experience all they can.They want to try thisAnd try that.They are curious.And they grow in lightThen fall behind, then grow,Then fall behind.And it’s similar for old souls,They too want to know what’s out thereBut with a different motive.They no longer Believe that they can growBy experience alone.They forsake The thing they want to knowFor the unseen guiding hand.They say “not my will be done,”They let go of all their dreamsIn preference to the willOf the One they cannot see,And so grow brighter and brighter.They become ONE THING.And that thing gets added upon eternally.And isn’t it the same with earthly experience?As children, we want to be a fireman,And a pilot, a cowboy or a movie queen,A housewife, a doctor, and a veterinarian.But in the end, we must eventually choose.Or not. We can choose to remain children,Moving from this thing to thatBut never really growing Into the thing we’re meant to be.And it’s all ok. Some grow up fast.Some take a little longer. Some are old souls, giving again and again,Becoming more and more themselves.And others paint the planet With beautiful colorsAs they try this thing and that.It is the way of souls to be curious.And it is the way of old souls To be even more curiousAbout the will of the unseen.

We make do as best we can, don’t we?And when we can’t, it’s over.And that’s it. That’s the story of life.People living, people dying.Some live well and some are lostIn the problems they find along the way.But that’s all they are is problems.And all the problems are connectedTo the little life that’s ours here on this earth,Nothing lasting. Nothing eternal.So long as we can see it that way,So long as when we die, We are not bound to this earthBy a thought that wants to stay,A bone to pick, a price to pay.For myself, I’ll fly away,Just like the old song says.I’ll fly away, oh, glory,I’ll fly away.When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,I'll fly away.

It doesn’t seem so hard now. It’s just a matter of timeAnd patienceAnd movement Toward the destination.

No more marathons.No more striving for the prize.It’s over. I’ve arrivedAt the placeWhere every want Has been supplied.So that finallyI can restIn silence.

Waiting in silenceFor the word.Sitting.Listening.Looking steadilyInto the unseen place.

Children of the lightDancing into darkness,Forsaking allFor the shadow Of the ones Who’ve gone before,Paving the wayFor future generations,Not children of the bodyBut children of the soul,They transcend The dark.They are the fathers, Mothers of us all.

The hush of dusk settles inAnd finds me at my destStill working.And that feels good,Not because it’s virtuousTo work till the sun goes down,But because I want to keep on working.

As the sunshine touches The uppermost tips of leavesWith the day's first rays of microscopic bliss,And as the birds gather to the warmth Of the summer morning,Even so, I sense The hope of healingIn the outermost corners of my consciousnessAnd draw my focus upward toward the warmth Of the thought of a body renewed In strength and purpose and vitality.I flap my wings. I move my bodyUpward toward the light,I sing the song.I feel the vibrations fill my chest and abdomen.It pulses through my limbs and outwardShaking lose all darkness,So that in, in, flows the lightPenetrating every organ,Every dark and damaged part.And I live in the future day of health.“Thank you for this healing,” I saySo that its reality fills me even now.

Money is at the same time cold and harsh, And also beautiful.It is beautiful Because it is cold and harsh and plain.It is one thing in life that you can count onTo remain the same.You bend to its reality Or crash against its solid frame.Two plus two is four. It is the terrible truth That most men can never wrap their minds around.One day we will escape into a math that bends reality.But that new reality will require a forsaking of the old.Until then, we face the horror of a truth we can’t escape.And that truth is both terrible and wonderfulDepending on whether we humble ourselves enough To slow down and know the numbersOr race on toward the doomThat awaits all thoseWho won’t.

Never trust the praise of Mammon.It says that it loves you for your hard work,When in reality, it covets or clings to your ability to profit.It claims to respect your responsibility,When in reality, it just wants a piece of your acclaim.It is a jolly mate at sea, A bosom friend In arms.And how it clings to its fellows When the rough seas of commerceToss the collusion into upheaval.But how quickly it turns mutinousWhen one among its ranks No longer serves The gain.It is a barrel full of fat hogsRubbing up against each otherEach rolling, laughing, in the mudAnd clinging to the warmth of the otherWhile despising anyone who will not play the gameAnd hating even more those who've tried and failed.

There is a gift in single minded work,Especially when it is for a worthy cause.It is that you do not have to thinkAbout your problems.And there is a gift in believing That people are supposed to have problems.It allows you to go to work And let go of other people's problems. 

I would guess that more than half Of our ideas are hairbrained.Only by trying do we find out if we're right.So step into the action.Do something, anything Based on a best guess And find out if you are right?

You will have to come to me, little bird.I cannot chase you any longer.What I have, what I am,Will have to be enough,Since to chaseFor me means death.And so, I forsake your pretty feathers.I wear my rags with dignityAnd nurture these old bones with kindness.Come close, little bird. I will not grasp you.I will not harm you any longer.Come and perch upon my fingerAnd then climb up up on my shoulder And sing your song into my earWhile I am living.Be my friend,Little bird.Do not leave me to the forestDark and wide and grim and open.I am a white man still and do not trust myselfTo the ravages of nature, but I’m trying.Be my friend, little bird,And together, perhaps,We will survive.

A dream…You the policeman,I the wandering vagrant.You upholding the laws that join house to houseAnd field to field til there is no more room left in the earth.I complying, moving on from place to place.But everywhere I go, you find me.You are the policeman in every town I come to,The good guy, the one with the law on his side.But you remember that we were once of the same tribe,Friends and brothers,And you take it easy on me.I remember that you crept into my home and lay with my lady.That you took advantage of what you perceived as weaknessTo steal my children and to paint me in their heartsWith the darkest shades of black.And I can live with that.I hold no resentment.But all the same,I miss them.My soul longs for my family.And I try to hint, to plead, that you could help me bridge the gap.But it falls on deaf earsTil finally, exasperated, I cry out, “I hate you, how I hate you!”You recoil. You draw back, surprised.“No, no,” I say. “Not really!”And then from someplace deep inside,“But you have no idea, how what you've done has hurt me!”And finally, recognition sparks within your eyes.You stand aghast at the realization.And then I wake upAnd wonder…Did you hear my cry?

The lawn is overgrownAnd there's nothing I can do about itBecause I can't afford a lawn mower right now,Not even a $40 used lawn mower.As at other times in my life, I find myself waiting,Wanting to do the socially acceptable thingBut unable to do so because of finances.And so the grass and weeds grow up around meWith the flowers, flowers everywhere,In and amongst the weeds,A gift from one who years agoCared enough to plant them here.And until last night, I fretted about it.I concerned myself with neighborsAnd chiggers and ticks And dogs.But last night, as the sun went down,I thought I heard another voice say,“Perhaps it's supposed to be this way for now.Perhaps this is closer to reality.And perhaps it might soothe your Indian soul to let it be,And even to embrace it for a while.After all, you are half-wild.Only a part of you Wants the white man's ways.The rest, and perhaps the deeper partLongs to let things fare according to their nature.”I know that one day soon,Probably not too far into the future,I will be able to afford a lawn mower.And I will mow the lawnOr let somebody mow it for me. But when I do, I wonder if it would be wisdom in meTo find another way to let things be,To grow my hair metaphorically,To wander through the woods,And to be plain, and open, and wild, and free,For despite my genealogy,My soul is only half civilized At least half of me stands naked before the sun Loincloth hanging down from my hips,My skin brown, my arrow raised,At one with things as they are, Not longing for anythingExcept to liveAnd be.

Lazy days, Putzing around the houseDoing this and that but with intention,Letting the oil of relaxation, repose, and recreationSeep in-between and lubricate The little movementsThat I might otherwise call work,As if there is enough time, enough money, enough loveTo nurture, ease, persuade, this frail bodyInto another year of living.

Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man Who helped prepare me for the road.To view previous lessons, look back through previous episodesLesson 9 - Do It for YourselfI have always struggled with this ideaSince it seemed self-centered.But I have to admit that when Raymond said it,There was a ring of truth.“I had a woman,” he said,“Down in Springfield.She was gorgeousAnd she wanted me to stay.But I found myself saying ‘I’ve got to go.’I’ve got to do this thing!Though I hated to leave.”And I think he meant that he had to find a home.“You’ve got to do it for yourself,” he said,“Before you can do it for another.”And I think that he was right.

Deep, deep, into the light there is a city,A country, forest, mountain, plain,Where nobody owns a single thing.And the residents dwell there alone,Alone and with their neighbor. And yet, they don’t protect. They don’t defend.They don't pretend that it is theirs.They renounce and renounce,And renounce againWith every breath their sacred claim Upon even themselves, And by so doingClaim The right to the world, the sky, the stars,And all that’s in them.And this is the paradox of true ownership.All else is usurpation. 

It appears that we don’t make opportunity happen.It seems to come to those who wait for itBut who don’t waste timeWhile they are waiting.

Opportunity comes to those who don't waste time.But that's not the same thing as being busy.You know when you're wasting time.Just stop doing thatAnd opportunity will come to you.

It turns out that relative morality Is actually founded in a moral absolute.Some things are easy. Rape is always wrong.But it is the grey areas that make us wonder If there is no firm moral law.But when we look closer,We discover that circumstance decides.There is still a right and a wrong answer.We just may not be wise enough to see it.And there are even timesWhen the right answer Is that any choice will do.But in those circumstances, Choosing to not worry about itIs still the right thing to do.And those who keep that lawAre blessed with sanity.Those who violate itFraught with mental instability.And it all depends upon the circumstance,Upon the person, the place, the situation.So, when our world presents us With a thousand shades of grey,Where do we turn for the right answer?To God, and to that Spirit which is HolyWhich will tell us all things that we should do.

Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man Who helped prepare me for the road.To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.Lesson 8 - Keep Asking“Make a trade,” Raymond said.“Ok,” I said. And off we went.We tried a dealershipBut they were closed.And then we tried a guyWho just sold cars but he said no.“Do you know of anyone who might be interested?” Raymond asked.“Yeah, so and so.”“Ok,” we said.And we tried them, and they said maybe.“Ok,” we said.“Do you know of anyone else who might be interested?” Raymond asked.“Sure,” they said. And just like that, we kept on going.”And Raymond drank Vodka. “I want to be authentic,” he said.He was. And more and more merry.Till finally, we were done.We both knew it.We had enough leads.And one of them turned out.

Melancholy and reflection are the poet’s friends.They leave and come again.They are the fertile soilThat works its way Between the toes of his imaginationAnd prod and shift the kindling firesOf his unknown, unseen, deeply buried passion.And, in time, with much wrestling, They bring forth the most delicate of flowers,Perfect curves and colorsFor the reader’s pastime hours.But little does the reader know what strivings,And what great waves heave within the soul.At times, the poet wonders if he’s been swallowed,Buried whole. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.For so are flowers madeThat sprout and bloomThen fade away.