I am mad with words; I see them abused
And take them far so their meaning can heal;
I rhyme them and rhyme them not until they are real.
They are pregnant within me and issue forth,
A muse’s madness visits me - we hasten forth.
And what cup is emptied that is not filled?
I see One standing perfectly still in the light
With reason to believe me.
My corporeal soul,
Which scattered my words to the four winds,
Returns and, kneeling as an ancient man
With head to ground, happiness spills.
I turn to see a Youth wander in
And bring a peaceful gale;
I looked and found and now I trim my sail.
You were wrong to doubt me, for each day
I long to detach little by little my self
So there is nothing left in me
But a rose laden breeze from the Unknown Town.
Ha! My introductions humble me!
All this to say my rug is clean
When I say my prayers.