Winds rage round Rouge Hill Station. Trees bend against the sky. The ice-blue lake clings to the horizon like a giant tear To see the sun begin his homeward ride.
What one knows is what one thinks is so. Only by deciphering principle amidst competing egos Can one hope to act ethically Spotting the moral mark like the archer aiming at the dazzling eye of the bull. Only with eternal vigilance can one claim adherence to reality Lest agitated by desire We say a cat’s … More The Mean