Meditation 1

The leaves will be fanciful,
Tonight, and the meaning
Of the foghorn, blaring
And dense will be lost
On those who are lost.

Let's walk down, dead,
To where the man,
Guardian, stands reserved
And reserves his judgement
For the gray savages of
Nightmare alley.

Holy, holy,
Self-reliant forester,
Pounding at the oak
Of uncertain significance;
Innumerable attempts
At building a holy home.

Frustrated,we cry,
Oh, holy life,
Take me with you!