See them all,
in the unholy landscape
of the death-in-living disregard.

We ever leave the twilight
for the night,
hopelessly hope mad loves will cure,
stop the dark monsters
until morning at least,
until the next everyday madness,
mad from seeing
how being might have been,
in light, joy, discovery,
flight,
intimate love and wonder,
in paradise,
where we capture
the wolves and snakes
wrapped around mankind
and burn them in belief in ourselves,
saints alive in all of us,
like birdsongs,
just in a wild joy,
life just living,
love just knowing,
wishes sparkling,
dreads all lost
in a new Spring.

The magic of all this made him see that much of this came from great and powerfully understanding souls of the past who, with mighty need to meet some fright, forged themselves great weapons of thought, idea, and belief. They lay deep not only in official beliefs but even more so in our subtle assumptions of what we must be to be right to ourselves and others.

Though ancient now, most of these old weapons still run wild in the world, long free of their makers and masters, destroying people they were never meant to hurt.

He saw that we should understand and refashion these powerful weapons of idea and belief into new and shining towers for peace and new understanding and enterprise.

This understanding also became a call to him to make things better, if he knew how, and the how weighed heavily on him, especially there with the terrible sorrows of the rain from mankind's Ocean of Tears.

Here we love and hope and wonder:
will you want to know me,
and will you forgive my wolves
as well as your own?

Might we wish and will up our being
to fight our wolves
that won past battles,
when we lost love,
rather than bed with them, too,
and scream in the autumn skies
of our lonely souls
and hide from the dread winter,
which only rebirth can conquer,
as every tree does,

and then Spring out,
like the earth,
still alive
for another, newer forever.