Applause Is The Beginning Of Abuse

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

The Jaws' Hooked Clamp And Fangs Not To Be Changed At This Date; A Life Subdued To Its Instrument.

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

Where White Is Black And Black Is White, I Won.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.