Why look, at a book? When you can read your own heart. Or can you? What is it we do? Rushing to our graves. Doesn’t matter what we have, Who we think we are. An inner explore, Right to my core. A clearing in the forest of my soul. A knowing that won’t grow old. Some light and warmth, To that inner cold. To feel what has been unfelt. That which has not been dealt. Something more, a further shore? To see, A glimmer of what can be. In a moment of peace, When not in my head, that realm of the dead. A sadly familiar dwelling for me. Underneath the murk, There lurks, Love, peace, joy, bliss? What is this? Fear takes flight, cannot stay in the light. The love behind the chaos. When pain disappears, what is left is that clear. Possibility of Freedom.