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