deepundergroundpoetry.com

� � � � � � � �SHE IS

� � � � � � � SHE IS

The ego grows and sticks like glue
behind it's rampart and walls high,
through slit windows it's arrows fly
to fall and run straight through
the spirit that is always you,
in desert climes where she is freed
as wind blows through the tumble-weed
and who can tell or glean
or verify what she has seen;
she is not time if she malingers
if she like sand runs through your fingers
forgetful she of all forgiven
she is the very soul of heaven,
she is the depth of the profound,
and is what makes the world go round.