Love we call the feeling we get from the sound
Of the song, or the look on the paint, or
The way the characters talk as they found
Out the story. As if that's what it's for,
Our regard, when we cannot even look
At ourselves, even when looking, unaware
Who the gods are, these artists or ourselves, hooked
On the outside catch, the proferred picture,
Not as a gifted glimpse of what we are,
Not as being aware of our own power,
I.e. loving ourselves, but as a rod
Where we are as sheep, chaff to wheat, lead to gold,
So far beyond us we release our hold,
To dispute among ourselves who's the true God.
