39
No truer truths can take me too far from here
Myself alone now viewing what I see as true
Torn from within an inner sepulcher once caked with fear
Made truer now by old offences now found few
I shake the must that's oozed into my adjacent earth
And ask of what borders will I dwell if seen above
The blanching soil that marks the mete of any birth
And ends in essays drawn from hell or love
When all is done, as now, there'll be a quiet end
As the mind's appetite winds down its furious grind
Substantiating proof that there's no better friend
Than one's ideas freed from a safer life confined
Give me love then, and spare the perplexing test
That challenges what in the heart is known best
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