Who with eye should visit me,
was it so that I might see?
For in that eye I knew to be,
everything contained in THEE!
And who this lady suede of face, silver haired,
arms of paste, living in a dark old place, yet, light
from her I still could trace?
What secret did she have to tell,
while I would judge this to be Hell?
But that is how I thought back then
so wrapped up in what I thought sin.
For when she waved and beckoned me,
I ran the other way to flee. Her food I thought
( My ego fed ) and so I missed, what she might
And what about those dogs and cats, horses,
wolves, who was that? And the fish that gave birth
to a goat, backing out from its throat? The priest
and priestly, devils, whores, an old man's secret for their
cures? The voice that called out twice my name, ( It happened
to a friend the same. ) The rapture many years ago, that
swept inside from head to toe? A visit to the Weavers Field,
made of Lambskin I could feelů.The hand that reached out from the sky,
the black turtle of giant size? The flame that filled my belly through,
for seven days it burned like new?
Doors that were from left to right, till only one
stands in my sight? And what about these times of fate
when others do participate? Ghosts that would run our stairs,
two of which to a guest, appeared? And what about the goat
that grew, shaggy haired, so white, so true? And the white bear,
and seven crows, and the native woman this heart knows?
The prophecies that came quite true, as those that wait perhaps might too?
And now these poems I sit and write? I do it as,