I do not come to this place on my own accord....
a higher plane beckons me 
 
If I view my dreams and purposes from afar....then are they 
        given Credence and Truth.
 
Some will say that the strong merely survive and achieve, with endurance,
that which those who are unable, only hope they could.
 
But I cannot exact the same from those
born into a noble caste and into a beggar's home....God views 
no lines of separation.
What is acceptable to the whole....is not the cause of the part....and is not
the service I give to my earthly companions.
 
I would rather serve at the table of the lowly black-sooted beggar than sup at 
        the feast of corruption.
 
I have no cognizance of that which seeks not its own self first and then
        the world's vice's....and of them there are multitudes,
for to live without smelling the sweets and beauties and purges and decadences
        first of You,
is to be in blindness to what your earth-mates of blended hues exude as well.
 
Who is the ablest of the masses to mark the nicks in time
        that recount the tale of death, over....and again?
and once more to me some fine day or night....and perhaps not
        to a suckling babe who has its years ahead in plenty.
 
Who can reckon that spot where good was trampled by greed....or the mind 
        of man who blesses that which he curses in the same soft breath?
 
Nothing is impossible in the narrow scope of my infinity....no thing can
        give back to me what was never departed,
and all things can be done by me through the love that strengthens.
 
Like the soil that enriches the fields of soy....the boy who enriches
        his mother with the water thirsty of praise....all converge
in a form of loveliness against the biting winds of man's deceit.
 
As well is my soul
in rest among goodly company,
and the hands of my being and Creator and Judge....no thing of evil seed 
shall prevail.
 
Every sheave of grass reminds me....I am a mortal among mortals,
        prone to the reaper's blade as my fellow man and woman.
 
I have but to see the breeze in the tops of trees,
        to be enamored by a rapture in the clouds.
I have but to wriggle in the ocean's nakedness with my own,
        and play the role of the deep-seated clam.
I need not look but to the ripening smell of plumgroves,
        and the purple-red, speckled vine.
Then do I question each who pass among the throng....each
        furtive glance that may brush against my own soul,
leaving their residue,
Why are the purest most often forsaken?