For Radical Tony Trapped In the Ivory Tower

Write have you the Spirit, Mend have you the thread. Reach what aches to hear it, and Fear no unmade bread. A culture is a chimney that smokes a sordid soul. Bleached and soaked, cut and battered to hovel off the edges knoll, but Time past and Time future say Eliot, are night alone; are only so far a phantom as no light inside ones home. You are light inside a fortress, a candle in a flame. A bud amoungst a forest, a bee amidst a hive. Your sting is sharp and fatal, more deadly than the rest. Your meals are more than honey; than canopy blessed. Your Spirit is a tempest that has no fear of flight; and the dawn knows no horizon burning red this endless night. This Time it is a phantom. The lights have left the home, but still, we are bees and flowers, and honey. and light.