The Inmost Spirit Of Poetry, In Other

Stilled Legendary Depth: It Was As Deep As England. It Held Pike Too Immense To Stir, So Immense And Old That Past Nightfall I Dared Not Cast.

What Happens In The Heart Simply Happens.

I Sit In The Top Of The Wood, My Eyes Closed. Inaction, No Falsifying Dream Between My Hooked Head And Hooked Feet: Or In Sleep Rehearse Perfect Kills And Eat.

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.

That's The Paradox: The Only Time Most People Feel Alive Is When They're Suffering, When Something Overwhelms Their Ordinary, Careful Armour, And The Naked Child Is Flung Out Onto The World. That's Why The Things That Are Worst To Undergo Are Best To Remember. But When That Child Gets Buried Away Under Their Adaptive And Protective Shells—he Becomes One Of The Walking Dead, A Monster.