(N.B. This is a Waldenesque work)

       With torn spirit I go to the tranquil creek,
   There monkish contemplation, divine revelation I seek,
             And build a mere meek human nest
            Financed from only a miser's chest,
     So I shall grow in the forest's feigned solitude.

       Come day, my heart beats a pulse to the pop
       Of bursting seeds sprouting peas and hyssop,
       And while passing time under a gleaming moon
       With the crackling leaves and cackling loon,
             I stare at Truth rendered nude.

             And there my grave will be put,
         Amid the quiet battles always underfoot.
         Now that I am again under lamp-lit skies,
            I muse, sigh, then close my eyes
     And the memory lifts my soul to higher altitudes.

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