Adoring imagination has been sin … to measure delight,
unkempt by love, celebrating pain and chalice. Most creative of souls—to die to
make it back—craved from soul to spirit. I have selected the unselected; have
arranged to make song; too polite on some counts. A soul admires beauty. It becomes much
ado. Same soul is made to regret beauty. Beauty becomes therefore non-beauty,
ugly, with oneness seeming impossible. If to capture emotion, to uplift
sincerity, notwithstanding, agreement; the valley filled with foxes,
temperaments, rabbits and wolves; eyes made of coyotes, souls pondering the
Great Beauty, minds harboring mongooses; by more sin, deeper reality, many
undoing the buildings. Becoming what hurts, loving regardless, core parts
separated. The last to complete science, its race, with unconsciousness probing
his discomforts.
