Ther Vine Keeper

"The Vine Keeper . . . messages in poetry & prose" by William S. Peters, Sr. is an Epic offering of Bill's writing. It is 439 pages of a truly transformative work. The Book Size is 8 by 10 Perfect for just $29.95 . . . makes a great Gift of Love and Spirit for the Seeker.
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Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Peace be still

Peace be still

there is a longing
in my soul
for a certain Peace,
one that i can not remember
but one that i intimately know
i once knew

where has she fled
why does she hide from me
where does her
and her family
of the Holies of me

we the people
of creation
do dream of thee,
each of us
in our own way,
thus adding to the myriad
of your complexity
your regality of expression
and our collective hearts

we have been searching for you
since that “fabled” 8th Day
which even the Prophets and Story Tellers
allude not to
nor dare not speak of

we have yearned for you
burned villages for you
as well as our brethren
at the stake

the sacrifice for your presence
is high

we attempted to negotiate
for your grace
with our deceits
our decorum
and our misgivings
found in our diplomacy
and politics . . .
to no avail

we have sat an listened
to the “Anointed” ones amongst us
as they preached
about you
and our hearts ached
for but a touch of you
please . . .
touch the hem of “my” garment
that i may know
of your
Remembrance of me

we held still with our faith
and we were resolute
in holding you
in the vestiges
of our replete mind

we created convictions
for you
and even persecuted
our reflective selves
in honor of a variable truth
we were persuaded was the embodiment
of your persona
in our lives

we and i write and speak
many words
in our Poetry,
our Prose
our Prayers
and our Letters
and our soft whisperings
in your obeisant honor
yet you show not your face
save in our own
“Self Convincing” “Self”
that you are real

embrace me

Peace where art thou

do you only visit upon
our restless nights
with dreams of fleeting grandeur
we too soon forget

how many times how many
must die
that your etheric effigy
may actualize
into some verifiable lasting reality
where all who hunger
and thirst for you
may be satisfied

i have come before the altar
of men i did not know

i have erected a few of mine own
to pay an homage and obeisance
i trusted you were worthy of . .
to Love

Peace, our hearts are needy
our minds are supple
and ready to be cultivated

Oh Peace, mold my aspirations
and my vision
cast me in the Ovens
and fire me until i become hardened
in your divine image

let thy hand caress my consciousness
and cajole me to walk the path of resolve
that we may come to understand
we all live by One collective Breath

Peace, come unto us
and Peace be unto You

Peace Be Still

© 29 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Playing the off key notes

Playing the off key notes

there was the gnashing of teeth
playing in a concordant symphony

i knocked on the door
because i had questions

i fell to my knees
no big thing i thought
if that is what is required of me

i have been to many an altar
not quite knowing how to speak
that which was troubling me
so i let my heart dwell
in its own meditative silence

i have eaten those bland tasting wafers
and drank your off brand grape juice
nothing felt quite authentic
i did not feel in touch
unless i really, really concentrated
and conjured forth another delusion

the old folks would say
“your hearts not in the right place”
maybe that’s why i hurt so much
for you
for me
for us all
and the loss of our civility

you see
this is not a new pain
and i have always
knew pain
for this insane
inane expression
on this plane
does not explain
why this rain
is flooding my soul
with salty tears

they say we should not fear
but i ask
what else is there to do
when you look about
and see so much suffering
some silently whispering to us
some shouting out loud

the holy shroud
when will it be lifted
or is that another piece of lore
a myth
that we must sift through
to find a truth
we may not recognize
with our empirically mutated eyes

even in the silence
i can hear the babies crying
they are just hungry
won’t someone feed them
the peace they seek

we speak in terms of budgets
and we have not budged yet
not nudged yet
our selves nor our fellow man
to that circle of unity
we so often elucidate
in our sermons
amongst friend and strangers
and anyone else who would listen

we do estrange our brethren don’t we
especially if there are significant choices
to be made
you know
like “Me” or “You”

and the voices of the muted souls
has resigned their self
to singing in empty choir lofts
for no one wishes to hear their misery
yet we practice a commiserable posture
with closed hands tightly clenched
around the potentials
of what we may become
and we grasp for breaths of reasonableness
that must be propped up
by our mastery
of words and charms
something we learned in school

how does one reconcile a day
in review sleep i must
that i may forget my lack
and God willing
i will dream of cartoons
sheep or dying . . .
or maybe i will just fall off that cliff
as i have done so many times before
you know
that edifice of accomplished wantings
that precipice
that has been looming
in my psyche
pretty much all my life

i never was quite grounded in those dreams
so i surmise
i will never be able to walk away
with any querulous perspective
of victory
quite a juxtaposition here
caught up between a wall
and another brick
being hurled at my fragility

at times it does rhyme
and is in sync
with wisdom
is that because it is indigenous
to old folk ?

i listened
they smiled
then fell asleep
reminding me that
there was a disparaging difference
in my perceptions
as time moved in fast forwarded frames
was it an 8mm
or a Glock
that shocked me back
to a semi verifiable consciousness

and if so
where are the wheels
to this wagon
and why is it not red ?
and why is everyone gnashing their teeth
attempting to understand
what is being said here
in my discordant symphonious playing
of the off key notes
of my life

27 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

i still dream

i still dream

my days of living
are not over
i still dream

yes, i want that 4 leaf clover
no splitting of the 3rd
who did i fool
not even my self

but i can laugh
at my folly
all of it
and let loose any collected disdain

i will not feign
my joy
i will feel it
as i let go
and come to know
that i am lucky
to have seen
a 3 leaf clover

and i am not blinded
by my own adopted

my days of living
are not over
for today
i still dream

© 26 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

i still dream

Saturday, August 25, 2012

i yield

i yield
there is a multitude of movement
about me
within me
life is in a constant flux
they say that all things have meaning
am i to spend countless aeons
to what end
or should i but become
the observant
of life manifest
am i the confluent point
where silence meets noise
where stillness meets life
where light meets dark
where dreams meet reality
am i that cross,
that fulcrum
that balances the polarities
held betwixt nothingness
and the absolute ?
in my midst
there is chaos ever prevalent
that which i can conjure
or quell
is it i that speaks into the void
that stirs these waters
with my spirit
where my abysmal self
is yet being defined
can words alone contain
our exponential-ness ?
to what descriptive analogy
do we cosign ?
is this but evidence
of the cyclic characteristics
of death yielding unto life ?
and the wheel spins
weaving gold from straw
the karmic command
is spoken in whispers
and soul takes heed
reflecting in microcosmic ways
the whole of our potential
that can never be grasped
but let
yes let it be
and our eyes shall be opened
and the light from within
shall pour upon the dark firmament
awaiting our touch
of consciousness
i yield
in reverence
© 25 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

of that well of reason

of that well of reason

in the well of my reason
that vast multidimensional expression of self
there are possibilities
without end
to assist me
that i may defend
the ground i claim
my own

within the realm
of the unknown
we play games
of “Convince and Deny”
as we vie
to not face the retributions
that comes with
our executions
in life
or the lack thereof

there is that
never aging child within
sin free
on a spree
who simply confronts
life’s stern dictates
with a seemingly
innocent and unattached

and then there is
the “woe is me” Me
who refuses to see
that it was he
who made that bed
he now
has to lie his head in . . .
and lyin’
is one of his many talents
he employs with a certain valiance
for he uses this gift
speaking fable
and folklore
to himself

and then
there is the “Word Wizard”
who can enact an acumen
with a zeal and a Zen
that can charm a snake
right out of his skin
and maketh him
feel guilty for being naked

and let us not forget
the “Cryer”
whose tears
keeps that well of reason
in supply
should the heat of the day
get too high

and that guy over there
he carries the world
on his shoulders
acting so much
telling himself
he is strong
while secretly he longs
to find a way out

where is the song ?

but my favorite one
with whom i have much fun
is the magician
who makes things disappear

yes he’s the one
with the queer
little idiosyncratic fears
he holds dear
just so he can smile at them

and all the vile gems
he has discovered
about self
through his digging
with a keen gleaned eye
he laughs at them
and him self
without reason
but because he can
and again
he realizes
the insignificance
of the significance
of that well of reason

© 25 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Damn the honey

Damn the honey

I never really contemplated
being friends
nor at this juncture
is it a viable consideration
of mine

over the years i imagine
i was conscious of you,
and that alone
is the establishment
of relationship

you stay in your space
and i stay in mine

i would prefer to maintain that status
if i could

you see,
whenever you came around
you visited upon me
an indelible fear
something about your winged fancies
and your ability
to dodge my concerns
intimidated me

whenever we had an encounter
i was stung
let with a remembrance
of the pain you have given me
and the possibilities of such a thing
whenever we meet

yes, in examination
i would love for us to develop
a mutual respect
and keen awareness
of each other
because the next time
you attack me
as you have done
so many times in the past
I will vie to kill
you and every one of your kind
should i have the opportunity

Damn the honey

this was written for all the Bee Stings i have endured over my life time.
To include Bees, Wasps, Hornets and all.

© 23 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Faith . . .

Faith . . .

the Cock crew
the Crow caws
Soul falls
Man Calls

while housed in this vessel
we wrestle with self
grabbing for strings
to hold on to things
to secure bodies
but bodies does not
that which has not
a home here

the Sun rises
we criticize
our eyes
still see that glint of wonder

light filters through
what’s within you
and we pull the curtain shut
for we are not ready
are we ?

and the Cock still
does what he does
all through the night now
and the quandary still prevails

what ails man
that he can not find peace
will the search ever cease
for that which is everlasting

we fast
we pray
we give
we say
help me
in many languages
a mixture of joy
of hope
of anguish

souls being tried
where do they go ?

we sow seeds
perform good deeds
trying to balance a “Karma”
Ma never told me about that

the fruit of the spoils
of the sacrifice
escapes my reason
for its sweetness
is but a season
of finite pleasing
and the Gods are teasing us
yet they tell us to trust

all about me
is suffering
and you say
it is perspective.
and that soul in me
in a most sarcastic voice
and you speak to me
of the choice
of free will

the shrill and the jester
scream and dance
i hear the dichotomous symphony
of life revisited again
reminding me
of the perils of a man
who is filled with questions

self becomes the enemy
the friend
all housed in that vessel
where the eternal like wrestling match
has no time outs
except when i
deliberately delude myself
or seclude my self
in the darkness
which runs and hides from me
offering me not any lasting solace

and still those damn birds
i hear them every dawn
and all day long
reminding me
of what we mourn for
the answering of the prayer for
a better life
where there is a peace
without cease

and still yet
the Cock crew
the Crow caws
Soul falls
Man Calls

Faith . . .

(c) 19 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

so they say

so they say

he had no true and devoted friends
just acquaintances
who painted faces
upon themselves
that they may pass by

no one wanted people to see them
as they truly are
so they hid
in shadowed corners
and behind pretty masks
fearing to be asked
to come to the real party

we all have endured
that is for sure
so much we did not agree with
haven’t we

we all have cursed ourselves
at one time or another
for going along
with the plan
the song
as interpreted
by others
smothering our own
creative intuitions

gathering names
to complete the picture
create the vision
that says we belong
to something

i’ll be your friend
what does that mean ?
i query myself  far too much
i thought
but . . .
better me than them
i reasoned
with the devil
and he smiled
and complimented me
he said i reminded me of his son
no one never told us
that the devil had children
but now that i think about it
i know of plenty of folks
who have given me
hell in my life

perhaps it was all in innocence
and they were just inviting me
to their home
for a visit
or sleep over

something about eternity
moves me
and another plateau
of deductive logics
invade my considerations
and all i can do is smile
in lieu of another
empty prayer
that i hear
but do not believe in
my self

do you believe in your self ?
which one may i ask
the one behind the mask
or . . .  .

well any way
as we meandered down
the multi colored brick road
we surmised it must have been
the remnants of that Lysergic Acid
that tainted our Chromosomes
cause this . . . life
is one “Hell” of a trip
i meant it is “Heavenly”
forgive me Lorde
and thank you for the blessings
and the bile that goes along with it

i know you have a purpose
“for the Bible told me so”
or was it that guy with the choking white collar
who hollers at us
every Sunday or so
until he is red in the face

i do like the way the veins
pop out his head
do you think God will prevent him
from exploding
just a thought

so this soul based banter i am having
anything viable ?
i do this for me
my best friend
who hides behind the mask
and hides in shadows
for that damn light
is scary
how can it be so special
when so many people have one
so they say

© 21 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Monday, August 20, 2012

to discover

to discover

i stood at the gate
and before me
was an ethereal garden
where the expectations
that speaks to the light
of my journey awaits
my exploration

i could hear a whisper
being spoken from the soils
begging me
to grace it’s damp earthy essence
with that of my bared Soles
of my feet
my bared Soul

footprints were awaiting
my impressions
that i may simply say
i have been this way before
and i and the garden
became one expression
of a beauty
still awaiting me
to discover

© 20 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

so much for the Putrid Stench . . . it was me !

so much for the Putrid Stench . . .  it was me !

The putrid stench of rotting dreams filled the air.
i was desperately not seeking Susan . . .
unless her Breast were full of sunshine and hope

i gingerly tiptoed through the multicultural waste
there lying in the gutter
diseased, undernourished, starved, abandoned and unloved . .

i saw the faces of the generations that would never come
yet  . . .
there they lie

there were no street cleaners or maintenance persons or the such

All, just as i, aimlessly mitigated life the best they could . . .
trying in desperation
not to touch accidentally another’s failure,
yet cheering them on.

No one had a hand full of magic . . .
there were no breaths of clean unspoiled fresh air to help
nor fuel dreams for our tomorrows

we could not ventilate the endless scene of debauchery
from our abysmal memories of failures and let downs.

I still shudder at the thought of that dark place
which i embrace so sacredly in my mind.

But . . . i have some advice . . .
as do we all ! . . . ha ha ha . . .
but who wishes to hear what has been heard ?
over and over again

It is just another collection of syllables and intent mixed together in a soup . . .
that none can digest .  . it must be Vegetable.

As i ambled down the rocky Cobblestone path of my past failed exploited dreams, i glimpsed a reflection . . . of someone who looked like me . .. was it a mirror of me, a picture . . . was this me past, present or future . . . no it was a collection of all the “Me”s.

I saw and had to face my forgotten enigmatic dreams i had put aside . . . how did i file them ? . . . impractical ? . .  or was it unreasonable ? . . .

Well, is not that what dreams are ? I saw my fear of today . . . right here at my side keeping me company, making sure i did not discover any unnecessary courage to reach out and try something i might succeed at. I mean, after all, are i not comfortable here complaining and full of this despair i choose to hold on to ? Should i reach out and try something untried? i might fail . . . or fall . . . then i would have to get my Ego and Pride cleaned once again, not to mention all that explaining i would have to do to others.

Growing weary i searched for a place of rest,
there are none  . . . so i clung to my delusions . . .
“I am not Tired” . . . “I need no rest” . . . “I understand what is happening”
yeah . . . you too ?

Just the same here we are . . . and somehow, they painted this picture . .
and named it what ? . . .Life ? . . .Hope ?
Bullshit . . . more like it . . .

Let’s all drop some Acid and take and extended Trip in to la la land . . .
or we could just fulfill the Prophesy of the “Right” . . .
and just kill all the Mockingbirds . . . cause they don’t sing no more !

so much for the Putrid Stench . . .  it was me !

© 26 July 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

the encounter

the encounter

i can’t really say that i met her

though we did notice each other

the courtesy of introduction

was amiss

so i will just say

i saw her

walking down that dimly lit street

in the twilight



with a solemn silence

her life

she was wearing a dress

that had no expectations

for her smiles

had been molested


ravaged and raped

by her life experience

she was not lucky in love


always abused





with her tear laden eyes

that no longer cries


she was victimized

by chance

and all of his willing

insensitive friends

who only sought

her booty-full bounty


she had resigned herself

to just co-exist

with fate

and the redundant pains

put upon her table

for her to consider



she had long since forgotten

the Cow like science

of regurgitation

for she did not wish

to taste any of those meals


once was enough

the encounter

© 7 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

the encounter

Sunday, August 19, 2012

I Love you my Child . . . Poetry

I Love you my Child . . . Poetry

I woke up this morning with a thought. I saw each of my Poems as my children. I realized at that moment and through further examination and discussion that i have not always . . . all ways been the diligent parent. Sometimes i have sent my children out to face a world completely disheveled with unbrushed teeth, not fed nor nourished. Some times i just put them out of the house for no reason at all, save to get them out of the house. Why did i not at least make them wash their faces or change their underwear, perhaps it was my own lethargy . . .my laziness.

Poetry has been good to me. She has been an integral part of my life for many years. She has seen me through my joys, my exhilaration, my disdain, my pain, the birth of my other Children and so much, much more. She took the time to help me understand and examine the things in my life that were amiss and not too apparent. When i was down, She lifted my spirits and it was her verse that assisted me in finding reason to move forward with purpose. When i was hungry, She fed me. When i did thirst, She gave me drink and replenished my soul.

When i look back upon the path we shared it is clear and evident how much i have grown over the years with her by my side as an integral part of my journey. I am not saying that life would not have happened if she were not my constant companion, for it would and did. Many times over the years i have abandoned her to only find her waiting under the lamppost at the Three pronged corners of my Consciousness, my Heart  and my Need. She has always been loving to my soul even in her bitterness and angst as well as those soft and sweet loving times we tenderly expressed to and through each other. At the end of the day, i must say i am so honored to have been given the charge of being chosen to be a steward of one of her voices. I am humbled in a certain reverence as well.

My conscious choice at this time is that i promise to be more studious to Her message and Her craft, for Poetry you are my Child. As Parents, we are not always perfect. We must continue to strive to do the best we can. Sometimes little thongs do get by us. I just pray that i am ever diligent to not put you, Poetry out in the street unkempt, that your life aura is lost in the darkness. I shall dress you prettily in becoming clothing that the world may appreciate you as much as i do. Poetry, i just love you, and i thank you for sharing your life with me.

I Love you my Child . . . Poetry

© 19 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

all because of Fresh Cut Grass

all because of Fresh Cut Grass


and the pain of the "sane" people still taps lightly at their inane consciousness to remind them they are still stuck here, in this "fuck you" here vibration of the expressions of life . . . . smdh . . .again

It was Saturday again. Time for folks to get about the chores. Doors opening and closing, “SLAMMING”, people hosing down their cars and flower gardens. Children have not started making noise quite yet, but you can bet your seditious ass they will very soon . . . some time before noon. But i could hear those damn lawnmowers . . . my God, it is not even 8 o’clock yet. Don’t those people have any decency. Where is my clemency from this purgatorious awakening to another Saturday Hell . . .do tell.

In the mean time, a couple of blocks over to the slight South, the Angels were gathering firewood. . . . lots of it. There was to be a “Stake Party” later this evening after the Son went down. They along with the approval of the Over-Lourdes had selected 3 souls for their Sacrificial amusements tonight. The whole neighborhood was gleeful as they anticipated the coming martyrdom of their once embraced friends and family. I guess they were also somewhat relieved that their straw was not the short one again. Many of them had experienced this way before only to be recycled in that ever confluent path of reincarnation. This was the new age salvation. Die . . . Ascend and be Born again. Some peoples had not quite got the sequence down to rote and attempted to convince themselves they were born again even before they died. Another SMDH moment for me.

I lay in the bed looking up at the ceiling and the dancing Pixies of Light that tried to camouflage themselves in the juxtapositions of light and dark, but i could see them clearly, for i was endowed with a sight. It must have been a mistake. I noticed in my last cycle, things were a bit different. I could see things i later learned to keep to myself. Very few understood, or they feared acknowledging perhaps that they could see strange things too. Either way i was not going to live my life completely in denial. I had bridges to burn, this time around. Perhaps that would assist me with my convictions of heart as i attempt to keep the drones at bay.

They say, “This is the Day the Lorde has made” . . . not quite grasping the import of this simple edict of One’s base belief systems, i question in my ignorance, “Which Lorde” do you speak of ? In my simple observations i have see many colluded expressions of a delusional reverence exercised as a truth to be digested by the masses. Here we go, another SMDH moment. Seems to be plenty of that going around these days.

In the mean time on the other side of this finite Galaxy, there are other symbiotic dimensions being created and explored by the innocent seekers of a verifiable truth. To no avail. We being naught but projective creators are free to live that which we choose. Sometimes i question that “Gift” of Free will, for it came without instruction, guidelines nor restraints. So we are free to paint upon life’s palette in any colors or shapes as we so wish. Yet, there are reproofs and rebuke-ments being manifested to balance our equations of desire that we must suffer along. Some of us have learned the gift of song that we may hopefully entice the Gods to be merciful in our Praise Like offerings to their ears . . . sort of how our Role Model Lucifer did when he occupied the position of Ministry of Music. Now we all have garnered a new craft and skill set as we seek to be appeased and unstrung from this diseased experiential journey. In the end i wonder . . .yes i wonder, and all i can seemingly come up with are these sort of semi Epiphanic emanations of Shaking My Damn Head. it is not that i am thoroughly convinced we are damned, for i too feel a compellation and Tryst for salvation . .  a hope that will deliver me out of this continual vortex where anguish and joys conspire with one another to make for some sort of lesson. This is one for the ages where the absence of time is a reflective illusion as well . . . Oh by the way, did i allude earlier about something of “Sane” people ? Don’t believe it, for all is still yet held in the delicate balance of Chaos, for from that primal space a God of the people was borne.

all because of Fresh Cut Grass

© 18 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Blame it on Jamie . . .

Jamie Bond sent me this in my In Box this morning


and this write ensued . . . .hope you enjoy the perspective and perhaps you will discover a contemplative look as well . . .

Friday, August 17, 2012

Love Perspectives

Love Perspectives

(a Love Collaboration with Janet Caldwell and William S. Peters, Sr.)


i met her upon my journey
i offered a smile

she had no trust of men
it seemed

i persisted in showing her kindness
and she began to believe
that she was worthy

you see
she arrived in my space
carrying tokens
of a past denied
washed away
from her sensitivities
because of all those tears
she cried
all those years

i see her tenderness
hidden just under her armor
for she was a warrior

in her own way
she fought each day
to hold at bay
her dismality
a haunting

she needed me
for she needed love
and that is what i do
at least that is what i thought


I met him on a dreary disdainful day
love it seemed, was not in the cards
at least not mine, anyway.

you see, i thought
Men were all liars and thieves
they steal your heart, leave you
in pieces, with no reprieve.

Somehow, he was different,
he listened with his heart
i could not move away.

As I explained my past to him,
my pain to him
he gently leaned in and kissed my
forehead, I didn't know what to say.

I rambled for hours and days on end,
he never left my side, i felt he loved me
and was proving to be a great friend.


she began to trust me
and trust me,
she confirmed me
for i was not sure
i could trust my self

you see,
i too have been hurt
cast aside
like dirt
mostly by my own doing

but here she is
my calm healing balm
embracing me
helping me
to face me
and my deepest fears
of being alone

there were songs
and tones
that have always played in my heart
and she helped me
to hear them
to see them
to see me
that i was a symphony
of me
and of her life

as time passed
she became my wife
and i thought my strife
had left for good

but there were challenges
because the sensations i dreamed of
forgot to dream with me

and my soullessness
heartless attitude
of vagrancy
and i spurned her
the only true love i could ever imagine
i burned her
and i turned from her
back to my own selfishness


I sensed a change,
something different
in his actions, his ways
something rearranged
I loved him anyway

I did not strive to change his mind
I continued to be sweet and kind

To love this man,
was my dream, my destiny
and I would not let him destroy this beautiful thing.

This thing called love
that which we had both
vied for
sighed for
and nearly died for

I would not let it nor him, walk out of my door.
for that is what God has made me for
to love him
and that i did
and i do


i thank God himself
for her,
for through her
i have come to see my self

all the while
while i was struggling
to reconcile
with my own Demons
she stood by

she was my Angel
beaming brightly
with love for me
to help me see
who “WE” could be
if but we
would work as one
one heart
one vision
one smile
one love


with One Love
we found a reconciliation

in my dedication
and our appreciation
for the us of us
was found

i was his Ruth
and he my Boaz
to whom my soul
is wed
for eternity

yes, love at times can be a test
of our earnesty
and with a certainty
we can see
a higher Truth


that love is truly . . . One