There's A Black Rose Growing In Your

The Laying Of Fish On The Embers, The Taste Of The Fish, The Feel Of The Texture Of Bread, The Round And The Half-loaf, The Grain Of A Petal, The Rain-bow And The Rain.

Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor Hate For A Cry, But God With A Song

You Will Not See That Desire Begets Love, Until It All Flames Into One Concise And Metallic Blaze.

Love Has No Charm When Love Is Swept To Earth: You'd Make A Lop-winged God, Frozen And Contrite, Of God Up-darting, Winged For Passionate Flight.

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.