The birth-root of a poem,
in the vagrant depths of the anonymous.
And the birth-pangs felt,
in the heart of the surreal.
A moment of deathly ecstasy,
in the living catacombs of existence.
...A celebration of life.
A God of all that is human.
And the godliness, of all that is humane.
Risen from the dust, with the dust, into the dust.
In the drunken madness, of all that is sensual,
is a bliss of the transcendent.
...And a song, of all that is commonplace...rhythms its music,
with the footsteps of the beyond!
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