love is just two people who have learned to accept each others faults. True love is when those two people realise the other has done the same

The highest place a man can be is in the word or on his knee..
For there the spirit of God dwells, and by your efforts you as well.
What a site it is to see when down on ground with bended knee.
Or in the word so bright and bold, seeing how your soul was sold.
Praying for your friends far lost or reading of who died on the cross.
Up on the words God wrote for you, Up on the prayers you say for true.
High on the rock of Calvary, there the highest heights man can be.

The deepest cave,. the most explored and yet most unknown place man has never been and yet owns a little part of.
A place that can be stolen, and yet often it is given to the thief by the owner.
Their are riches here, and garbage, and scars, and yes even evil but some good as well.
Who can know it's depths?
who can plunder it's riches?
Many have sought an answer, many have looked hard and asked many a question and yet for all it's effort; their own hearts failed them.
How can someone know such a cave if it changes course from day to day? And yet it is often harder to change it.
What contradictions it is, what conundrums, what beauty and terror and fire and passion and ice and wind and rain and fury!

What am I?
I am all these;
I am the still of the night, the bright of the day,
the fear of the fight, the fight of the fray.
I am the center of the mind,
I am one of a kind.

There I sat . though I guess it was more of a squat. I contemplated letting it go, and trust me I tried, boy did I try to let it go. But it was stuck on me.
It was  like one of those horror movies where you split up from the group and the first one to get naked gets killed. Only I was just trying to take a ****.

I wake up every morning. I open the a small wooden box containing the precious substance needed for the ritual.  Carefully I measure out the sacred plant into it's proper vessel. I pour clear and filtered water into the basin. I wait patiently for the water to steep through the plant forming a wicked and dark fluid. I poor it into a earthen glass. I sip it, I love the taste of the bitter substance as it washes over my tongue; it's smell enveloping my mind and filling my head with a buzz.
I always make sure to prepare it dark as the void and black as the night.
Over the course of an hour I slowly sip the dark liquid until at last it is finished. I can feel it's dark power flowing through me and giving me strength.
. . .Oh how I love my morning coffee.

Who can fathom the thoughts of the moon as it sit's in the sky on a hot afternoon?

Or the lovers quarrel  of the sea on the shore? or a river who's banks have flooded the moor?

Or the voice of stars  as  they fall from the sky; do they laugh or do they cry?

Who can understand the mind of a dog, or the chicken or hen or the old barn hog?

Only the mind of a poet who thinks like a shroom,
Who breaths the fire of flowers without bloom.

Try this offer from natures boon.
Just relax and you'll understand soon.

Then take a walk through the woods and ask the trees,
for they have more secrets then they have leaves.