Trees don't grow on this soil
then again
zen generated tractors didn't plow
my apple seed from your palm.
your palm
which now hovers over stomach
of other wasted semen
of higher stature then mine.

So, I'll be a Richard
with a lion-heart of sheep
and a sword that lost its cunning
facing morning lullabies.
ungrasp the ideas
or to parallel
release the haft of them
for I walk a road my no-eye sees.